A  FURNACE 
OF  EARTH 


HALLIE-  ERMINIE'  RIVES 


4^ 


Air 


A  FURNACE  OF  EARTH 


By  the  Same  Author. 


THE  SINGING  WIRE. 


A  FOOL  IN  SPOTS. 


SMOKING  FLAX. 


AS  THE  HART  PANTETH. 


A  FURNACE  OF  EARTH 


BY 
HALLBE  ERMINIE  RIVES 

Author  of  "Smoking  Flax,"  etc. 


As  silver  tried  in  a  furnace  of  earth,  purified  seven  times. 

—DAVID. 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CAMELOT  COMPANY 
1900 


COPYRIGHT,  1900, 

BY  THE  CAMELOT  COMPANY, 

NEW  YORK. 


TO 
R.  W. 


1782135 


Their  first  estate  of  joy  they  leave, 
So  pure,  impassioned  and  elate, 

And  learn  from  Piety  to  grieve 
Because  their  hearts  are  passionate. 
— The  Revelation  of  St.  Love  the  Divine. 


EARTH,  AIR  AND  WATER. 

ALONG  the  wavering  path  which  followed  the 
twisting  summit  of  the  cliffs  toiled  a  little  figure. 
His  face  was  tanned,  and  from  under  a  brown 
tangle  of  hair  looked  eyes  blue  and  fearless. 

He  had  walked  a  mile,  and  home  lay  a  mile 
further,  where  white-painted  cottages  glowed 
against  the  close  green  velvet  of  the  hills.  The 
way  ran  staggeringly,  and  the  boy  was  tired. 

A  group  of  ragged  children  tossed  up  their 
caps  and  shouted  from  the  cluster  of  fishermen's 
huts  set  further  back  from  the  sea;  he  did  not 
heed  them,  but  seated  himself  on  the  tufted  panic- 
grass  and  turned  his  eyes  seaward.  The  hot  sun 
slanted  silver-bright  flashes  from  the  moody 


2  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

water,  and  whistling  swallows,  beyond  the  cliff- 
edge,  soared  and  dropped  against  the  blue  of  the 
sky,  like  black  balls  from  a  juggler's  hands.  A 
light  breeze,  lifting,  ruffled  with  a  million  ripples 
the  gray  surge,  played  along  the  path  in  scurry- 
ing dust-whorls  and  cooled  his  hot  cheeks. 

On  its  heels  came  stealthily  a  yellowish  dim- 
ness; a  sullen  bank  of  cloud  crept  swiftly  along 
the  northern  horizon.  From  a  thin,  black  line,  it 
grew  to  a  pall,  rising  ominous  and  threatening. 
Quick  flashes  pricked  its  jagged  edge.  Beneath 
it  the  sea  turned  to  a  weight  of  liquid  lead. 

The  boy  Richard  rose  fascinated,  his  eyes  upon 
the  advancing  squall,  his  ears  open  to  the  rising 
breathing  of  the  waves,  troubled  by  under- 
dreams.  His  lips  were  parted  eagerly,  and  his 
browned  hands  clutched  at  the  brim  of  his  hat. 
Often  and  often,  from  his  window,  he  had  seen 
the  power  of  the  storm;  now  its  near  and  in- 
timate presence  throbbed  through  him. 

The  foremost  gust  struck  him  with  sudden 
fury,  turning  him  about  as  though  with  strong 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  3 

hands  upon  his  shoulders,  and  tearing  his  hat 
from  his  grasp.  He  caught  his  breath  with  a 
sense  of  outraged  dignity ;  then,  bending  his  head 
resolutely  to  the  onslaught,  he  stumbled  forward. 
The  air  was  full  of  scudding  mist-streaks,  and 
twisted  roots  caught  at  his  feet  in  the  half-dark- 
ness. The  fierce  wind  tore  with  its  claws  at  the 
little  jacket,  buttoned  bravely,  and  tossed  the 
damp,  rebellious  hair.  The  fishermen's  huts  lay 
just  behind  him,  a  dry  and  beckoning  shelter; 
before  him,  for  a  few  paces,  stretched  the  path 
leading  into  ghostly  obscurity.  The  boy  bent 
low,  bracing  his  legs  doggedly  against  the  stub- 
ble, and  foot  by  foot  went  on  along  that  lone  mile 
into  the  storm. 

On  a  sudden  the  blurred  sea-view  was  swal- 
lowed up.  The  wind  swooped,  grasping  at  his 
ankles.  It  picked  up  pebbles  and  flung  them, 
howling,  against  his  body.  They  stung  like  heavy 
hail.  It  snapped  off  unwilling  twigs  from  the 
cringing  bushes  and  dashed  them  into  the  child- 
ish face.  But  he  did  not  retreat.  What  was  the 


4  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

wind  that  it  should  force  him  back!  A  mighty 
determination  was  in  his  little  soul.  His  teeth 
were  tight  clenched,  and  his  legs  ached  with  the 
strain.  The  blast  caught  away  his  breath  and  he 
turned  his  back  to  it.  At  the  moment  it  seemed 
to  lull,  tempting  him  to  go  its  way,  but  he  would 
not  yield. 

Then  the  tempest  gathered  all  its  forces  and 
hurled  them  spitefully,  hatefully  against  him, 
barring,  lashing  him  cruelly,  thrusting  him  back- 
ward. He  dropped  upon  his  knees  in  the  path, 
giving  not  an  inch.  The  wind,  sopped  with  heavy 
rain,  fell  upon  him  bodily.  He  stretched  himself 
flat,  winding  his  fingers  among  the  roots  of  the 
wiry  grasses,  struck  down,  bruised,  but  still  un- 
conquered. 

A  lone,  pied  gull,  careening  sidelong  through 
the  wind-rifts,  roused  in  him  a  helpless  frenzy  of 
anger  and  resentment.  He  clenched  his  tiny  fist 
and  shook  it  at  the  sky,  choking,  gasping,  sob- 
bing, great  tears  of  impotent  rage  and  mortifica- 
tion blown  across  his  cheeks. 


FIRE. 

THE  red-gold  of  the  sun  still  warmed  the  late 
summer  dusk.  The  fading  light  sifted  between 
the  curtains  of  the  window  and  touched  lovingly 
the  checkered  coverlid,  moulding  into  soft  out- 
line the  rounded  little  limbs  beneath.  The  long 
hair  spread  goldenly  across  the  pillow,  and  the 
wide  brown  eyes  were  open. 

Old  Anne  was  going  to  die — old  Anne  with  the 
ugly  wrinkled  face  and  bony  fingers  from  which 
all  the  children  ran.  She  was  going  to  die  that 
night.  Margaret  had  heard  it  whispered  among 
the  servants.  That  very  same  night  while  she 
herself  was  asleep  in  bed!  Her  soul  was  going 
to  leave  her  body  and  fly  up  to  God. 

She  wondered  how  it  would  look,  but  she  knew 
it  would  be  very  beautiful.  Its  back  would  not 
be  bent,  nor  its  face  drawn  with  shining  burn- 


6  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

scars.  It  would  be  young  and  straight,  and  it 
would  have  wings — long,  white  wings,  such  as 
the  angels  had  in  the  big  stained-glass  window 
over  the  choir-box  in  the  chapel.  It  would  have 
a  ring  of  light  around  its  head,  such  as  the  moon 
had  on  misty  evenings.  It  would  go  just  at  the 
moment  when  old  Anne  died,  and  those  who 
watched  close  enough  might  see.  Would  it 
speak?  Or  would  it  go  so  swiftly  that  it  could 
only  smile  for  a  good-by?  She  wondered  if  its 
eyes  would  be  kindly  and  blue,  not  dim  and 
watery  as  Anne's  had  been.  Her  own  face  was 
smoother  and  prettier  than  Anne's,  but  her  eyes 
were  dark.  Angels  always  had  blue  eyes.  Its 
face  would  be  turned  up  toward  heaven,  where  it 
was  going,  and  its  wings  would  make  a  soft, 
whispering  sound,  like  a  pigeon's  when  it  starts 
to  fly.  One  would  have  to  be  very  quick,  but  if 
one  were  there  at  just  the  right  minute,  one  could 
see  it. 

Oh,  if  she  only  could !    She  felt  quite  sure  she 
would  not  be  afraid  of  Anne  then,  knowing  that 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  7 

she  was  just  going  to  be  an  angel !  If  they 
would  only  let  her!  She  was  so  little,  and  they 
would  be  watching,  so  that  maybe  they  would  not 
notice  her.  Perhaps  she  could  slip  in  quietly  on 
tiptoe,  and  then  she  would  see  a  real  shining  soul, 
such  as  she  herself  had  inside  of  her,  and  which 
she  loved  to  imagine  sometimes  looked  out  of  her 
eyes  at  her  from  the  looking-glass.  A  breathless 
eagerness  seized  her,  and  she  sat  up  in  the  bed, 
hugging  her  knees  and  resting  her  chin  upon 
them. 

She  listened  a  moment;  the  house  was  very 
still.  Then  she  threw  down  the  covers,  and 
jumped  in  her  bare  feet  to  the  floor.  She  sat 
down  on  the  rug  in  her  white  nightgown,  and 
pulled  on  her  stockings  with  nervous  haste,  and 
her  shoes,  leaving  them  unbuttoned  and  flapping. 
Then  she  slipped  into  her  muslin  dress,  fastening 
it  behind  at  the  neck  and  waist,  and  opened  the 
door,  tugging  at  the  big  brass  knob,  and  quaking 
at  its  complaining  creaks.  No  one  was  in  sight, 
and  the  little  figure,  with  its  bright  floating  hair 

r 


8  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

and  rosy  skin  showing  between  its  shoulders  like 
a  belated  locust,  stole  fearfully  down  the  dim 
stairway,  along  the  deserted  hall,  and  sidling 
through  the  half-opened  door,  stepped  out  among 
the  long-fingered  glooms  of  the  standing  shrub- 
bery. 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  frightened  at  the  out- 
door dark,  and  then,  catching  her  breath,  ran 
quickly  around  the  corner  of  the  house,  and 
down  the  drive  toward  the  low,  clapboarded 
structure  beside  the  stables,  where  a  lighted  win- 
dow-shade with  moving  shadows  pointed  out  the 
room  of  that  solemn  presence. 

The  night  air  was  warm  and  heavy,  and  its 
door  stood  wide.  She  crept  up  close  and  listened. 
Between  low-muttered  words  of  subdued  con- 
versation, she  heard  a  slow  and  labored  breath- 
ing— a  breathing  now  stopping,  now  beginning 
again,  and  with  a  curious  rattle  in  it  which  some- 
how awed  her.  From  where  she  crouched,  she 
could  see  only  the  foot  of  the  bed,  with  its  tall, 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  9 

bare  posts.  There  seemed  to  be  expectancy  in 
the  hushed  voices  within,  and  a  quick  fear  seized 
her  lest  she  should  miss  the  wonderful  sight. 
Quivering  with  eagerness,  she  rose  to  her  feet, 
and  with  her  fascinated  gaze  seeking  out  the  old 
face  on  the  pillow,  stepped  straight  forward  into 
the  room. 

She  heard  a  rising  murmur  of  astonishment, 
of  protest,  and  before  her  light-blinded  eyes  had 
found  their  way,  felt  herself  seized  roughly,  un- 
ceremoniously, lifted  bodily  off  her  feet  and 
borne  out  into  the  night.  She  heard,  through  the 
passionate  resentment  of  her  childish  mind,  the 
soothing  endearments  of  Jem  the  gardener,  and 
she  struggled  to  loose  herself,  beating  at  his  face 
with  her  hands  and  sobbing  with  helpless  suffo- 
cation of  anger. 

A  frightened  maid  met  them  at  the  door  and 
took  her  from  him,  carrying  her  to  her  room  to 
undress  her  and  sit  by  her  till  she  should  fall 
asleep.  No  assurance  that  old  Anne  would  soon 


io  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

be  happy  in  heaven  comforted  her.  No  one 
understood,  and  she  was  too  hurt  to  explain  what 
she  had  wanted. 

So  she  lay  through  the  long  hours,  the  bitter 
tears  of  grief  and  disappointment  wetting  her 
pillow. 


I. 

The  air  above  the  shelving  stretches  of  sand- 
beach  shimmered  and  dilated  with  the  heat  of  the 
August  afternoon,  as  Margaret  walked  just  be- 
yond the  yeasty  edge  of  the  receding  waves. 
There  was  little  wind  stirring,  and  the  cool  damp 
was  pleasant  under  her  feet.  She  had  left  the 
hotel  behind,  and  the  straggling  line  of  bobbing, 
dark-blue  specks,  which  indicated  the  habitual 
bathers,  was  small  in  the  distance. 

A  blue-and-silver  bound  book  was  in  her  hand, 
and  her  gray  tweed  skirt  and  soft  jacket,  with  a 
bunch  of  drooping  crimson  roses  at  the  waist, 
made  a  grateful  spot  upon  the  white  glare.  Sum- 
mer sun  and  sea-wind  had  given  a  clear  olive  to 
her  face  and  a  scarlet  radiance  to  her  full  lips, 
softly  curved.  Her  hair,  in  waving  masses  of 


12  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

flush-brown,  flowed  out  from  beneath  her  straw 
hat,  tempting  a  breeze. 

To  her  left  were  tumbled  monotonous,  low 
dunes,  and  beyond  them  the  torn  clayey  bank, 
gashed  by  storms;  to  her  right,  only  barren 
stretch  of  sea  and  sweep  of  sky. 

At  a  bight  of  the  shore,  under  the  long,  curved 
bole  of  a  pine,  leaning  to  its  fall  from  the  high 
bank  through  which  half  its  naked  roots  struck 
sprangling,  ran  a  zigzag  footpath  to  a  little 
grove,  where  hemlock  and  stunted  oak  grew 
thickly.  Up  she  climbed,  poising  lightly,  and 
drawing  herself  to  the  last  step  by  grasping  a 
sprawling  creeper.  The  green  coolness  refreshed 
her,  and  there  was  more  movement  in  the  higher 
air. 

She  followed  the  twists  of  the  path  among  the 
low  bushes  clustering  in  front  of  a  sparse  clear- 
ing. Facing  her,  in  the  edge  of  the  shade,  where 
the  light  fell  in  mottled  shadows  upon  a  soft, 
springy  floor  of  dead  pine  needles,  with  its  wide 
arms  laced  in  the  rasping  boughs  of  the  scrub- 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  13 

oaks  around  it,  stood  an  unwieldy  wooden  cross, 
hewed  roughly,  its  base  socketed  in  stone  and  its 
horizontal  bar  held  in  place  by  a  rust-red  bolt.  A 
cracked  and  crazy  bench,  also  hewn,  was  set  be- 
neath, and  just  above  this  was  nailed  a  heavy 
board  in  which  was  deeply  cut  this  half-effaced 
inscription : 


t>ere  lies 
Cbc  JSoOfi  of  an  TQnfmown  Woman 

Browned 

f  n  tbe  TttHrech  of  tbe  Scbooncr  JSactlett, 
,  1871. 


and  below  it,  in  larger  characters,  now  almost 
obliterated  by  gray-and-yellow  stains : 

©ra  pro  Hnima  Sua. 

This  was  Margaret's  favorite  spot.  She  pre- 
ferred its  melancholy  solitude  to  the  vivacious 
companionship  of  the  cottage  piazza,  and  its 
quiet  tones  to  the  bizarre  hues  of  the  beach  pa- 


14  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

vilion.  It  lay  removed  from  the  usual  paths, 
reached  only  by  a  wide  detour,  across  bush- 
tangled  wastes  or  the  long,  uncomfortable  walk 
up-shore  on  the  hot,  yielding  sand.  Now  she 
sank  upon  the  seat  with  a  deep  sigh  of  pleasure, 
letting  her  book  fall  open  in  her  lap.  Her  eyes 
roved  far  off  across  the  gray-green  heave  where 
a  buccaneering  fish-hawk  slanted  craftily. 

A  deeper  light  was  in  them  as  they  fell  upon 
the  open  printed  leaf : 

"For  Love  is  fine  and  tense  as  silver  wire, 
Fierce  as  white  lightning,  glorious  as  drums 
And  beautiful  as  snow-mountains.     Swift  she  is 
As  leaping  flame  and  calm  as  winter  stars." 

Its  chaste  beauty  had  long  ago  stamped  the 
passage  upon  her  memory;  to-day  the  lines 
hymned  themselves  to  a  subtle,  splendid  music. 

Tossing  the  volume  suddenly  to  one  side,  her 
hands  loosed  her  belt.  She  held  the  limp  band 
movelessly  a  moment,  and  then  bent  her  face 
eagerly  over  it.  Under  her  fingers  the  filigree  of 
the  clasp  slid  back,  disclosing  a  portrait.  It  was 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  15 

that  of  a  man,  young,  resolute-faced,  with  brown, 
wavy  hair  parted  in  the  middle,  and  candid  fore- 
head. It  was  rugged  and  masterful,  but  with  a 
sweetness  of  lips  and  a  tender,  gray  softness  of 
proud  eyes  that  bespoke  him  not  more  a  doer 
than  a  dreamer. 

As  she  looked,  her  lips  parted  and  a  faint  color 
crept  up  her  neck,  showing  brightly  against  the 
auburn  hollows  of  her  hair.  She  fondled  and 
petted  the  ivory  with  her  hands,  and  then  raised 
it  to  her  lips,  kissing  it,  murmuring  to  it,  and 
folding  it  over  and  over  in  the  warm  moistness 
of  her  breath. 

Holding  it  against  her  face,  she  walked  up  and 
down  the  open  space  with  quick,  pushing  steps, 
her  free  hand  stripping  the  leaves  from  the 
sweeping  bush  fronds,  her  hat  fallen  back,  sway- 
ing from  the  knotted  streamers  caught  under  the 
slipping  coil  between  her  shoulders.  Stopping  at 
length  in  front  of  the  bench,  she  hung  the  belt 
upon  a  corner  of  the  carven  board,  its  violet 
weave  tinging  the  weathered  grain  and  the 


1 6  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

painted  circlet  glowing  like  a  jewelled  period  for 
the  massive  lettering. 

With  one  knee  on  the  warped  seat,  she  read 
again  the  fading  sentences. 

"An  unknown  woman."  Gone  down  into  the 
cold  green  depths!  Perhaps  with  a  dear,  glow- 
ing secret  in  her  heart,  a  one  name  bubbling  from 
her  lips,  a  new  quivering  something  in  her  soul, 
which  the  waters  could  not  still !  That  body  buf- 
feted and  tossed  by  rearing  breakers,  to  lie  name- 
less in  a  neglected  grave;  that  soul,  its  earthly 
longing  forgotten,  to  go  forever  unregretful  of 
what  it  had  cried  for  with  all  the  might  of  its 
human  passion ! 

Ah!  but  did  it?  If  death  touched  her  own 
soul  to-day !  "For  love  is  strong  as  death.  *  *  * 
Many  waters  cannot  quench  love,  neither  can 
the  floods  drown  it !"  In  imagination  she  felt  the 
numbing  clasp  of  the  dragging  under-deeps ;  she 
saw  her  soul  wandering,  wraith-like,  through 
shadowless,  silent  spaces  and  across  infinite  dis- 
tances. Would  it  bear  with  it  a  placid  joy? 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  1 7 

Would  it  know  no  quicker  heart-beat,  no  tears 
that  reddened  the  eyelid,  no  tender  thrill  in  all  its 
lucent  veins?  Would  nothing,  nothing  of  that 
strange,  sweet  wildness  that  ran  imprisoned  in  all 
her  blood  cling  to  it  still  ? 

The  thought  bit  her.  She  reached  up  and 
snatched  down  the  belt,  pressing  the  clasp  tightly 
with  her  cheek  in  the  curve  of  her  shoulder,  re- 
peating dumbly  to  herself  the  pious  "Ora  pro 
anima  sua"  that  stood  before  her  eyes. 

A  far  crackling  struck  across  her  mood,  and 
hastily  drawing  the  belt  about  her  waist,  she 
leaned  sideways  from  the  upright  beam,  raising 
her  hand  quickly,  as  if  to  put  back  the  lawless 
meshes  of  her  hair.  She  heard  the  sound  of  a 
confident  step,  crunching  on  the  marly  sand,  and 
the  swish  of  bent-back  bushes.  It  was  coming 
in  a  direct  line  toward  her.  There  was  a  dry 
clatter  of  falling  fence-rails,  as  though  the  in- 
truder, disdaining  obstacles,  preferred  to  walk 
through  them. 


1 8  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

She  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  familiar,  bright- 
colored  scarf  between  the  glimmering,  leafy 
tangles,  and  then  the  thrust  of  a  quick  spring, 
and  an  instant  later  the  figure  that  had  vaulted 
the  heavy  fence  came  dropping,  feet  foremost, 
through  the  snapping  screen  of  brambles,  and 
walked  straight  toward  the  spot  where  she  had 
risen  to  her  feet  with  a  little  glad  cry. 


II. 


"Give  me  your  hand,"  he  said  peremptorily. 
They  were  on  a  pebbly  spur  of  the  descending 
path,  and  Daunt  had  leaped  down  below  her.  As 
she  stretched  it  out  to  him,  he  drew  it  sharply 
toward  him.  She  felt  herself  grasped  firmly  in 
his  arms,  swung  off  and  lifted  to  the  smooth 
level  beneath.  She  could  feel  his  uneven  breaths 
stirring  in  the  roots  of  her  hair,  and  his  wrists 
straining.  Her  head  fell  against  his  shoulder 
and  her  look  met  his,  startled.  His  sunburned 
face  was  pale,  and  his  gray  eyes  were  hazed  with 
a  daring  softness. 

Then,  as  she  lay  passive  in  his  arms,  a  fiery 
longing  grew  swiftly  in  them,  and  he  suddenly 
bent  his  head  and  kissed  her — again  and  again. 
She  felt  her  unused  mouth  moulding  to  answer- 


2O  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

ing  kisses  beneath  his  own,  and  her  cheeks  rush- 
ing into  a  flame.  Through  her  closed  lids  the 
sun  hung  like  a  rosy  mist  of  woven  sparkles. 

"I  love  you! — you! — you!"  he  said,  stammer- 
ing and  hoarsely.  "I  love  you !" 

The  tumbling  passion  of  the  utterance  pierced 
through  her  like  a  spear  of  desperate  gladness. 
Every  nerve  reached  and  quivered,  tendril-like. 
His  deep  breathing,  toned  with  the  dripping  lap 
of  the  shingle  seemed  to  throb  through  her.  She 
lay  quiet,  breathless,  her  lashes  drooped,  her  very 
skin  tense  under  the  lasting  burn  of  his  lips. 

"Margaret !    Ardee,  dear !    Look  at  me !" 

Her  eyes  flowed  into  his.  From  a  blur  under 
cloud-pale  eyelids,  they  had  turned  to  violet  balls, 
shot  through  with  a  trembling  light.  The  look 
she  gave  him  melted  over  him  in  a  rage  of  love. 
Desire  bordered  it,  a  smile  dipped  in  it,  promise 
made  it  golden,  and  he  saw  his  own  longing 
painted  in  it  as  a  pilgrim  sees  his  reflection  in  a 
slumbering  pool. 

She  clasped  her  hands  on  his  head,  pushing 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  21 

back  his  cloth  cap,  and  framing  his  face  in  the 
long,  sweeping  oval  of  her  arms.  He  could  feel 
little  vibrant  thrills  in  her  fingers.  He  held  her 
tightly,  masterfully,  first  at  arm's  length,  laugh- 
ing into  her  wide  eyes,  and  then  close,  folding 
her,  pressing  her  hair  with  his  hands. 

The  leaves  from  the  roses  she  wore  fell  in 
splotches  of  deep  red,  sprinkling  the  brown- 
veined  sand  at  their  feet ;  the  dense,  bruised  odor, 
mixed  with  the  salty  breath  of  seaweed,  seemed 
to  fill  and  choke  all  her  swaying  senses. 

"It  is  like  a  storm !"  she  said.  "I  have  dreamed 
of  it  coming  at  the  last  gently,  like  a  bright 
morning,  but  it  isn't  like  that !  It  seemed  as  if 
that  were  the  way  it  would  come  to  me — like  a 
still,  small  voice — but  it  isn't !  It's  the  wind  and 
the  earthquake  and  the  fire!  Oh!"  she  said, 
drawing  her  breath  in  a  long,  shuddering  inhala- 
tion. "Do  you  smell  that  rose-scent?  Did  ever 
any  roses  smell  like  that?  They — they  make  me 
dizzy!  Feel  me  tremble." 

Every  pulsation  of  her  frame  ran  through  him 


22  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

with  a  swift,  delicious  sensation,  like  the  touch- 
ing of  rough  velvet.  Her  curling  hair,  where  it 
sprang  against  his  neck,  ridged  his  skin  with  a 
creeping  delight. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  said,  "you  are  like  a  great, 
tall,  yellow  lily.  Some  gnome  has  drawn  amber 
streaks  in  your  hair — it  shines  like  a  gold-stone 
— and  rubbed  your  cheeks  with  a  pink  tulip  leaf ! 
And  your  lips  are  like — no,  they  are  like  nothing 
but  ripe  strawberries!  Nobody  could  ever 
describe  your  eyes;  they  are  most  like  a  bed  of 
purple  violets  set  in  a  brown  cloud  with  the  sun 
shining  through  it.  Tell  me !"  he  said  suddenly. 
"Do  you  love  me  ?  Do  you  ?  Do  you  ?" 

"Yes!  yes!  yes!  Oh,"  she  breathed,  "what 
is  there  in  your  hands?  I  want  them  to  touch 
me!" 

He  passed  his  palms  lightly  along  the  bow- 
like  curve  of  her  cheek. 

"It  is  like  fire  and  flowers  and  music,"  she 
said,  "all  rolled  into  one.  And  those  roses !  They 
are  attar.  The  sand  looks  as  if  it  were  bleeding !" 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  23 

"Shall  you  think  of  me  when  I  am  on  the  train 
to-night  ?" 

"All  the  time — every  minute !" 

"And  to-morrow,  while  I  am  in  the  city?" 

"Yes!" 

"And  Monday?" 

"Then  you  will  come  back  to  me !" 

He  strained  her  to  him  in  the  white  sunlight, 
and  kissed  her  again,  on  the  lips  and  forehead 
and  hands,  and  she  clung  to  him,  lifting  her  face 
to  him  eagerly  and  passionately. 

Margaret  stood  watching  the  firm-knit  figure 
as  it  crossed  the  sand  space.  She  saw  the  lift  of 
his  lithe  shoulders  as  he  pulled  himself  up  the 
bank,  saw  his  form  splashed  against  the  sky,  saw 
the  flutter  of  his  handkerchief  as  he  flung  her  a 
last  signal. 

She  waved  her  hand  in  return,  and  he  dis- 
appeared. 

Then  she  ran  to  a  slant  spile  rising  lonely  from 
the  sand,  and  sank  down  quivering.  It  seemed  to 


24  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

her  as  if  she  could  bear  no  more  joy;  her  body 
ached  with  it.  She  threw  up  her  hands  and 
laughed  aloud  in  sheer  ecstasy. 

Then  she  remembered  that  she  had  left  her 
book  in  the  grove,  and  she  stumbled  up  and 
walked  back  slowly,  smiling  and  humming  an  air 
as  she  went  along. 

The  first  shade  of  the  dimming  afternoon  lay 
under  the  trees  as  she  climbed  again  to  the  little 
clearing,  and  the  sunbeams  glanced  obliquely 
from  the  crooked  oak  branches.  The  air  was 
very  still  and  freighted  only  with  the  soft  swish 
of  the  ebb-tide  and  the  clean  fragrance  of  balsam. 
Her  book  lay  open  and  face  down  on  the  plank 
seat.  She  picked  it  up  and  sat  down,  leaning 
back. 

She  was  still  humming,  low-voiced,  and  as  she 
sat  she  began  to  sing — not  strongly,  but  hushed, 
as  though  for  a  drowsy  ear — with  her  face  lifted 
and  her  dreamy  eyes  upon  the  sea  margin. 

"Purple  flower  and  soaring  lark, 
Throbbing  song  and  story  bold, 


A  Fitrnace  of  Earth.  25 

All  must  pass  into  the  dark, 
Die  and  mingle  with  the  mold. 
Ah,  but  still  your  face  I  see! 
Bend  and  clasp  me ;  Sweet,  kiss  me !" 

It  was  Daunt's  song,  the  one  he  most  loved  to 
hear  her  sing.  But  to-day  it  had  a  new,  rich 
meaning.  She  stretched  her  hands  on  either  side, 
grasping  the  seat,  and  sang  on  to  the  bending 
boughs,  rubbing  slowly  against  the  weather- 
stained  beam  arms  above  her  head  : 

"Dear,  to-day  shall  never  rust ! 
What  are  we  to  be  o'erwise? 
All  that  doth  not  smell  of  dust 
Lieth  in  your  lips  and  eyes. 

So,  while  loving  yet  may  be, 

Bend  and  fold  me ;  Sweet,  kiss  me !" 

The  shade  grew  darker  as  she  sat.  It  deep- 
ened the  brown  of  her  eyes  and  the  sea-bloom  in 
her  cheeks,  and  the  loitering  lilac  of  the  west 
touched  the  coils  of  her  hair,  as  they  lay  against 
the  gray  board,  blotting  with  their  living  bronze 
the  half-effaced,  forgotten  inscription: 

Pray  for  Her  Soul. 


III. 

In  the  pause  before  the  service  began,  Mar- 
garet's eyes  drifted  aimlessly  about  the  dim  body 
of  the  small  but  pretentious  seaside  chapel.  It 
held  the  same  incongruous  gathering  so  often  to 
be  seen  at  coast  resorts,  a  mingling  of  ultra-fash- 
ionable summer  visitors,  and  homely  and  uncom- 
fortably well-dressed  village  folk.  There  was 
Mrs.  Atherton,  whose  bounty  had  elevated  the 
parish  from  a  threadbare  existence,  with  simple 
service  and  plain  altar  furniture,  to  a  devout  ad- 
herence to  High  Church  methods,  with  candles 
and  rich  vestments,  and  a  never-failing  welcome 
for  stylish  visiting  clergymen  from  the  city; 
there  was  the  wife  of  the  proprietor  of  the  Beach 
Hotel,  whose  costumes  were  always  faithful  sec- 
ond editions  of  Mrs.  Atherton's;  there  were  the 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  27 

rector's  two  daughters  and  the  usual  sprinkling 
of  familiar  faces  that  she  had  passed  on  the  drive 
or  the  beach  walk. 

The  lawn  outside  was  shimmering  with  the 
heat  that  had  followed  an  over-night  shower, 
and  the  pewed  calm  oppressed  her.  Her  limbs 
were  nettled  with  teasing  pricks  of  restlessness. 

The  open  windows  let  in  a  heavy,  drenched 
rose-odor,  tinged  with  a  distant  salt  smell  of  sea. 
The  air  was  weighted  with  it — it  was  the  same 
mingled  odor  that  had  filled  her  nostrils  when 
she  stood  with  Daunt  on  the  shore,  with  the  wet 
wind  in  their  faces  and  fluttering  petals  of  the 
crushed  roses  she  had  worn  staining  the  dun 
sand  and  crisp,  strown  seaweed  like  great  drops 
of  blood.  It  overpowered  her  senses.  She 
breathed  it  deeply,  feeling  a  delicious  intoxica- 
tion, and  its  suggested  memory  ran  through  her 
veins  like  an  ethereal  ichor,  tingling  to  her  finger 
ends. 

Her  eyes,  heavy  and  swimming,  were  full  of 
the  iridescent  colors  of  the  stained-glass  window 


28  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

opposite,  with  the  dull  yellow  aureole  about  the 
head  of  the  central  figure.  The  hues  wove  and 
blended  in  a.  background  of  subdued  harmony, 
lending  life  and  seeming  movement  to  the 
features. 

"A  man  somewhat  tall  and  comely,  his  hair  the 
color  of  a  ripe  chestnut,  curling  and  waving." 
The  description  recurred  to  her,  not  as  though 
written  to  the  Roman  Senate  by  Lentulus,  Gov- 
ernor of  Judea,  but  as  if  printed  in  bossed  letters 
about  the  rim  of  the  picture.  "In  the  middle  of 
his  head  a  seam  parteth  it,  after  the  manner  of 
the  Nazarites.  His  forehead  is  plain  and  very 
delicate,  his  face  without  spot  or  wrinkle,  beau- 
tified with  a  lovely  red;  his  nose  and  moutl.  of 
charming  symmetry.  His  look  is  very  innocent 
and  mature ;  his  eyes  gray,  clear  and  quick.  His 
body  is  straight  and  well  proportioned,  his  hands 
and  arms  most  delectable  to  behold." 

"His  eyes  gray,  clear  and  quick."  From  the 
window  they  followed  her — the  eyes  that  had 
looked  into  hers  on  the  beach,  full  of  longing 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  29 

light — the  eyes  that  had  charmed  her  and  had 
seemed  to  draw  up  her  soul  to  look  back  at  them. 

She  dragged  her  gaze  away  with  a  quick  shud- 
der, to  a  realization  of  her  surroundings.  A 
paining  recoil  seized  her  at  the  temerity  of  her 
thought,  and  her  imaginings  shrank  within  them- 
selves. A  vivid  shame  bathed  her  soul.  She 
felt  half  stifled. 

The  dulled  and  droning  intonation  of  the 
reader  came  to  her  as  something  banal  and  shop- 
worn. He  was  large  and  heavy-voiced.  His  hair 
was  sandy  and  thin,  and  his  skin  was  of  that  pe- 
culiar pallor  and  pursiness  bred  of  lack  of  exer- 
cise and  a  full  diet.  It  reminded  her  irresistibly 
of  pink  plush.  He  had  a  double  chin,  and 
he  intoned  with  eyes  cast  down,  and  his  large 
hands  clasped  before  him,  after  the  fashion 
affected  by  the  higher  church.  His  monotonous 
and  nasal  utterance  glossed  the  periods  with 
unctuous  and  educated  mispronunciation.  The 
congregation  was  punctuated  with  nodding 
heads. 


30  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

To  Margaret,  listening  dully,  there  seemed  to 
be  an  inexpressible  incongruity  between  the  man 
and  the  office,  between  the  face  and  the  robes, 
which  should  have  lent  a  spirituality.  She 
looked  about  her  furtively.  Surely,  surely  she 
must  see  that  thought  reflected  from  other  faces ; 
but  her  range  of  vision  took  in  only  counte- 
nances overflowing  with  conscious  Sabbath  recti- 
tude, heads  nodding  with  rhythmic  sleepiness 
and  eyes  shining  with  churchly  complacency. 
Suddenly  through  the  rolling  periods  the  mean- 
ing struck  through  to  Margaret,  and  her  wander- 
ing mind  was  instantly  arrested. 

"For  they  that  are  after  the  flesh  do  mind  the 
things  of  the  flesh;  but  they  that  are  of  the 
Spirit,  the  things  of  the  Spirit.  For  to  be  car- 
nally minded  is  death,  but  to  be  spiritually 
minded  is  life  and  peace." 

She  heard  the  words  with  painful  eagerness. 
Her  mind  seemed  suddenly  as  acute,  as  quick  to 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  31 

record  impressions  as  though  she  had  just  awak- 
ened from  a  long  sleep. 

A  woman  in  a  pew  to  Margaret's  right  dropped 
her  prayer-book  with  a  smart  crash  onto  the 
wooden  floor.  The  smooth  brows  drew  together 
sharply  and  his  voice,  pauseless,  took  on  a  note 
of  asperity,  of  irritated  displeasure.  Reading  was 
a  specialty  of  his,  and  to  be  interrupted  spoiled 
the  general  effect  and  displeased  him. 

"Because  the  carnal  mind  is  enmity  against 
God:  for  it  is  not  subject  to  the  law  of  God, 
neither  indeed  can  be." 

"So  then  they  that  are  in  the  flesh  cannot 
please  God." 

An  old  man,  bent  and  deaf,  sat  close  up  under 
the  reader's  desk.  He  leaned  forward  with  elbow 
on  knee  and  one  open  palm  behind  a  hairy  ear. 
His  eyes  were  raised,  and  his  look  was  rapt. 
Margaret  could  see  his  side-face  from  where  she 
sat.  He  saw  only  the  sanctified  figure  of  the 


32  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

priest  and  heard  no  human  monotone,  but  the 
voice  of  God,  speaking  through  the  lips  of  His 
anointed.  He  was  a  real  worshipper.  For  her 
the  spiritual  was  swallowed  up.  That  one  bodily 
image  stood  before  her  inner  self.  It  had  blotted 
out  her  diviner  view ;  it  had  even  thrust  itself  be- 
hind the  flowing  robes  and  sandaled  feet  and  had 
dared  to  usurp  the  place  of  the  eternal  symbol  of 
human  spirituality! 

She  locked  her  hands  about  her  prayer-book, 
pinching  them  between  her  knees.  The  woman 
directly  in  front  of  her  wore  a  hot,  figured  silk 
and  a  drab  mull  boa  that  looked  dreadfully  like 
bunched  caterpillars.  The  riotous  rose-odor 
made  her  faint  and  sick,  and  she  had  a  horrible 
feeling  that  the  carved  heads  of  the  jutting  stone 
work  were  laughing  evilly  at  her. 

A  strangling  terror  of  herself  seized  her — a 
terror  of  this  new  and  hideous  darkness  that  had 
descended  upon  her  spirit — a  terror  of  this  over- 
mastering impulse  which  threatened  her  soul.  It 
was  part  of  the  dominance  of  the  flesh  that  its 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  33 

senses  should  be  opened  only  to  itself,  only  to  the 
earthy  and  the  lower.  This  penalty  was  already 
upon  her;  of  all  in  that  congregation,  she,  only 
she,  must  see  the  bestial  lurking  everywhere, 
even  in  God's  house,  and  in  the  vestments  of  His 
minister. 

"So  then  they  that  are  in  the  flesh  cannot 
please  God." 

It  was  part  of  their  punishment  that  they  could 
no  longer  please  themselves.  Out  from  every 
shape  of  nature  and  art,  from  the  shadows  of 
grove  and  the  sunshine  of  open  plain,  from  the 
crowded  street  and  from  the  silent  church  must 
start  forever  this  spectre,  this  unsightly  com- 
rade of  fleshly  imagination.  This  was  what  it 
meant  to  be  carnally  minded.  Margaret's  soul 
was  weak  and  dizzy  with  pain. 

For  in  some  such  way  will  every  woman  cry. 
The  very  purity  of  her  soul  will  rise  to  bar  out 
the  love  that  is  of  earth,  earthy — the  beautiful 


34  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

human  love  so  young,  so  tender-eyed  and  warm- 
fingered,  and  with  the  lovely  earth-light  that  is 
about  its  brows.  And  then,  when  the  soul  grows 
weary  of  the  pallid  thoughts,  when  the  chill  of 
the  shadows  strikes  through — when  the  walls 
grow  cold  and  the  soul  lifts  iron  bar  and  chain  to 
let  in  the  human  sunshine,  then  the  pale  images 
that  throng  the  house  gather  and  are  frightened 
at  the  very  joy  of  the  sun,  and  they  try  to  shut 
the  door  again  against  the  shining,  and  sit  sor- 
rowful in  a  trembling  dark. 

The  cry  of  the  woman  is,  "Give  me  soul !  Give 
me  spirituality!"  Oh,  loved  hand!  Oh,  eyes! 
Oh,  kissed  lips  and  fondled  hair!  The  woman's 
love  gives  to  each  of  you  a  soul.  You  will  shine 
for  her  in  her  nethermost  heaven. 

"Tell  me  not  of  my  love,"  she  cries,  "that  it  is 
corporeal  and  must  fade !  Tell  me  only  that  it  is 
of  the  spirit,  a  fond  and  heavenly  light,  such  as 
never  was  in  earthly  sunrise  or  in  evening  star! 
A  soul,  but  not  a  body !  An  essence,  but  no  sub- 
stance !  It  is  too  lovely  to  be  of  earth,  too  sweet 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  35 

to  be  only  of  this  failing  human  frame.  Its 
speech  is  the  speech  of  angels,  and  its  eyes  are 
like  the  cherubim.  Tell  me  not  that  it  is  not  all 
of  the  soul !"  So,  until  she  dreams  the  last  dream 
of  love  in  earth-gardens,  until  she  closes  her 
soul's  eyes  to  dream  of  the  humanity  of  love,  the 
dignity  of  human  passion,  until  then  she  per- 
fumes the  lily  and  paints  the  rose. 

When  the  temperament  that  loves  much  and  is 
oversensitive  opens  the  gates  of  its  sense  to 
human  passion,  if  its  spiritual  side  recoils,  it  re- 
coils with  self-renunciation  and  with  tears.  The 
pain  of  such  renunciation  makes  woman's  soul 
weak.  Its  self-probings  and  the  whips  of  its  con- 
science, made  a  very  inquisitor,  form  for  her  a 
present  horror.  She  cries  out  for  the  old  dream, 
the  old  ideal,  the  old  faith!  It  is  the  tears  she 
sheds  for  this  which  drop  upon  the  wall  of  the 
world's  convention  and  temper  it  to  steel. 

"Therefore,  brethren,  we  are  debtors  not  to  the 
ilesh  to  live  after  the  flesh.  For,  if  ye  live  after 


36  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

the  flesh,  ye  shall  die:  but  if  ye  through  the 
Spirit  do  mortify  the  deeds  of  the  body,  ye  shall 
live." 

The  droning  voice  of  the  reader  hummed  in 
Margaret's  ears.  She  came  to  herself  again,  al- 
most with  a  start,  dimly  conscious  that  the 
woman  in  crepe  in  the  next  pew  was  watching 
her  narrowly.  She  must  sit  out  the  service.  She 
fell  to  studying  the  pattern  of  the  embroidery  on 
the  altar  cloths.  It  was  in  curiously  woven 
arabesques,  grouped  about  the  monogram  of 
Christ.  Anything  to  withdraw  her  eyes  from  the 
face  of  the  reader,  for  which  she  was  beginning 
to  feel  a  growing  and  unreasoning  repulsion. 

Throughout  the  remainder  of  the  sermon  she 
kept  her  gaze  upon  her  open  Bible,  turning  up 
mechanically  all  the  cross  references  to  the  word 
"flesh."  She  followed  the  contradistinction  of 
flesh  and  spirit  through  the  New  Testament.  It 
was  the  flesh  lusting  against  the  spirit,  and  the 
spirit  against  the  flesh,  contrary  the  one  to  the 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  37 

other.  The  lust  of  the  flesh  and  the  lust  of  the 
eyes  and  the  pride  of  life — these  all  of  the 
world. 

The  voice  of  the  priest  ran  along  in  pause- 
less  flow.  It  seemed  to  Margaret  that  he  was  re- 
peating, with  infinite  variations,  the  same  words 
over  and  over :  "So  they  that  are  in  the  flesh  can- 
not please  God." 

As  she  rose  for  the  final  benediction,  her  knees 
felt  weak  and  she  trembled  violently.  She  re- 
membered what  happened  afterward  only  con- 
fusedly. The  next  thing  she  really  knew  was  the 
sense  of  a  moist  apostolic  palm  pressed  against 
her  forehead  as  she  half  sat  on  the  stone  bench  to 
the  right  of  the  entrance,  and  a  smooth,  rounded 
voice  saying: 

"Mrs.  Atherton!  Mrs.  Starr!  will  you  come 
back  here  a  moment?  This  dear  young  woman 
appears  to  be  overcome  with  the  heat !" 


IV. 


Daunt  to  Margaret. 
"NEW  YORK,  Sunday  Morning. 

"My  Very  Own! — Is  that  the  way  to  begin  a 
love  letter?  Anyhow,  it  is  what  I  want  to  say. 
It  is  what  I  have  called  you  a  thousand  times,  to 
myself,  since  a  one  day  far  back — which  I  shall 
tell  you  about  some  time — when  I  made  up  my 
mind  that  you  should  love  me.  Does  that  sound 
conceited?  Did  you  ever  guess  it?  Over  a  year 
I  have  carried  the  thought  with  me;  you  have 
loved  me  only  half  that  time. 

"How  I  have  watched  your  love  unfolding! 
How  I  have  hugged  and  treasured  every  new  lit- 
tle leaf !  I  have  been  afraid  so  long  to  touch  it ; 
I  wanted  every  petal  full-blown,  before  I  picked 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  39 

it,  to  be  mine — mine,  only  mine,  all  mine,  as  long 
as  I  lived. 

"Since  I  left  you  yesterday,  to  come  up  to  this 
dismal  city,  I  have  been  so  happy  that  I  have 
almost  pinched  myself  to  see  if  I  were  not  asleep. 
To  think  that  all  my  richest  dreams  have  come 
true  all  at  once ! 

"When  I  think  of  it,  it  makes  me  feel  very 
humble.  I  shall  be  more  ambitious.  I  am  going 
to  write  better  and  truer.  I  must  make  you 
proud  of  me!  I  am  going  to  work  hard.  No 
other  man  ever  had  such  an  incentive  to  grow — 
to  catch  up  with  ideals — as  I  have,  because  no 
other  man  ever  had  you  to  love. 

"Yesterday  I  went  directly  from  the  train  to 
the  club.  I  pulled  one  of  the  big  chairs  into  a 
shaded  corner  and  closed  my  eyes  to  feel  over 
and  over  again  the  deliciousness  of  the  afternoon. 
I  could  feel  your  body  in  my  arms  and  your  head 
hard  against  my  shoulder  and — that  first  kiss.  It 
has  been  on  my  lips  ever  since !  I  haven't  dared 
even  to  smoke  for  fear  it  might  vanish ! 


40  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

"All  the  while  I  had  a  curious,  vivid,  tumul- 
tuous sense  as  though  I  were  in  especially  close 
touch  with  you.  It  seemed  almost  as  if  you 
wanted  to  tell  me  something,  and  that  I  couldn't 
quite  hear. 

"After  I  went  to  bed  I  could  not  sleep  for  hap- 
piness; I  wondered  what  you  had  been  doing, 
saying,  thinking,  dreaming — whether  you  thought 
of  me  much,  and,  most  of  all,  when  you  knelt 
down  that  night !  Shall  I  always  be  in  the  'Inner 
Room,'  and  shall  you  look  in  often? 

"A  letter  is  such  a  pitiful  makeshift !  I  could 
go  on  writing  pages !  I  want  to  put  my  arms 
around  you  and  whisper  it  in  your  ear ! 

"The  church-bells  are  ringing  now.  I  can  pic- 
ture you  sitting  in  the  chapel,  just  as  you  do 
every  Sunday,  and,  maybe  sometimes,  just  a 
minute  of  course,  stealing  a  little  backward 
thought  of  me! 

"Always  in  my  mind,  you  will  be  linked  with 
red  roses,  such  as  you  wore  then.  To-day  I  am 
sending  you  down  a  hamper  of  them.  I  should 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  41 

like  to  think  of  you  to-night  as  sleeping  nestled 
up  in  them,  and  dreaming  their  perfume.  I  am 
longing  to  see  you.  I  feel  as  though  I  wanted  to 
roll  the  day  up  and  push  it  away  to  get  into  to- 
morrow quicker. 

"You  will  hardly  be  able  to  read  this — my  pen 
runs  away  with  me;  but  I  know  you  can  read 
what  is  written  over  it  all  and  between  every  two 
lines — that  I  love  you,  I  love  you  wholly,  unal- 
terably. 

"God  keep  you,  safe  and  sound,  dearest,  al- 
ways, always — for  me! 

"RICHARD/' 


42  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 


Margaret  to  Daunt. 

"Monday. 

"I  am  leaving  this  morning  for  a  long  visit.  I 
cannot  see  you  again.  I  have  made  up  my  mind 
suddenly — since  I  saw  you  Saturday  afternoon, 
I  mean.  You  will  think  this  incomprehensible,  I 
know,  but,  believe  me,  I  must  go. 

"Think  of  me  as  generously  as  you  can.  This 
will  hurt  you,  and  to  hurt  you  is  the  hardest  part 
of  it.  Do  not  think  that  I  have  treated  our  asso- 
ciation lightly.  I  could  go  upon  my  knees  to  beg 
you  not  to  believe  that  I  have  been  deliberately 
heartless.  Remember  me,  not  as  the  one  who 
writes  you  this  now,  but  as  the  girl  who  walked 
with  you  on  the  beach  and  who,  for  that  one 
hour,  thought  she  saw  heaven  opened. 

"MARGARET  LANGDON." 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  43 


Daunt  to  Margaret. 

"Dear: — You  must  let  me  write  you.  You 
must  listen!  What  does  your  letter  mean? 
What  is  the  reason?  If  there  had  been  anything 
that  could  come  between  us,  I  know  you  well 
enough  to  believe  you  would  have  told  me  before. 
How  can  you  expect  me  to  accept  such  a  dis- 
missal? I  don't  understand  it.  What  is  it  that 
has  changed  you?  What  takes  you  from  me? 
Surely  I  have  a  right  to  know.  Tell  me!  You 
can't  intend  to  stay  away.  It's  monstrous!  It's 
unthinkable !  Explain  this  mystery ! 

"I  could  not  believe,  when  I  received  your  let- 
ter to-day  in  the  city,  that  you  had  written  it.  It 
seemed  an  evil  dream  that  I  must  wake  up  from. 
Yet  I  have  come  back  here  to  our  summer  haunt 
to  find  it  true  and  you  gone.  You  have  even  left 
me  no  address,  and  I  must  direct  this  letter  to 
your  city  number,  hoping  it  will  be  forwarded 
you. 


44  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

"How  can  you  ask  me  to  submit  to  a  final  sen- 
tence like  this  ?  I  feel  numbed  and  stung  by  the 
suddenness  of  it!  I  can't  find  myself.  I  can  do 
nothing  but  wrestle  with  the  unguessable  why  of 
your  going.  It's  beyond  me. 

"After  that  one  afternoon  on  the  sands,  after 
that  delicious  day  of  realization  that  my  hopes 
were  true — that  you  loved  me — to  be  flung  aside 
in  a  moment  like  an  old  glove,  like  a  burnt-out 
match,  with  no  word  of  explanation,  of  reason — 
nothing !  It  shan't  stay  so !  You  can't  mean  it ! 
You  are  a  woman,  a  true,  sweet  woman ;  you 
shan't  make  me  believe  you  a  soulless  flirt! 
There  is  something  else — something  I  must 
know! 

"I  feel  so  helpless,  writing  to  you.  Space  is  a 
monster.  If  I  could  only  see  you  for  a  single 
moment,  I  know  it  would  be  all  right.  Write  to 
me.  Tell  me  what  I  want  to  know.  Until  I  hear 
something  from  you,  I  shall  be  utterly,  endlessly 
miserable. 

"R.  D." 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  45 

Margaret  to  Daunt. 

"I  cannot  come  back,  Richard.  I  cannot  even 
explain  to  you  why.  Don't  humiliate  me  by  writ- 
ing me  for  reasons.  You  would  not  understand 
me.  What  good  would  it  do  to  explain,  when  I 
can  hardly  explain  it  to  myself  ?  I  only  feel,  and 
I  am  wretched. 

"You  must  forget  that  afternoon !  I  am  trying 
to  do  the  right  thing — the  thing  that  seems  right 
to  myself.  I  must  believe  in  my  instinct ;  that  is 
all  a  woman  has.  I  know  this  letter  doesn't  tell 
you  anything — I  can't — there  is  no  use — I  can't! 

"You  know  one  thing.  You  must  know  that 
that  last  day,  when  I  kissed  you,  I  did  not  think 
of  this.  I  did  not  intend  to  go  away  then.  That 
was  all  afterward.  I  had  no  idea  of  hurting  or 
wronging  you — not  the  slightest ! 

"I  know  this  is  incoherent.  I  read  over  what 
I  have  written  and  the  lines  get  all  jumbled  up. 
Somehow  it  seems  to  mean  nothing.  And  yet  it 
means  so  much — oh,  so  horribly  much! — to  me. 

"M." 


46  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 


Daunt  to  Margaret. 

"Dearest: — Please,  please  let  me  reason  with 
you.  Don't  think  me  ungenerous ;  bear  with  me 
a  little.  I  must  make  you  see  it  my  way !  I  cheat 
myself  with  such  endless  guessing.  Can  I  have 
grieved  you  or  disappointed  you?  Have  I 
shocked  those  beautiful  white  ideals  of  yours  in 
any  way?  If  that  walk  on  the  shore  had  been  a 
month  ago,  if  we  had  been  together  since,  I 
might  believe  this;  but  we  have  not.  That  was 
the  last,  and  you  loved  me  then!  I  brought  my 
naked  heart  to  you  that  afternoon — it  had  been 
yours  for  long! — and  laid  it  in  your  hand.  You 
took  it  and  kissed  me,  and  I  went  away  without 
it.  Have  you  weighed  it  in  the  balance  and 
found  it  wanting?  Do  you  doubt  what  it  could 
give  you  ?  Dear,  let  it  try ! 

"To-day  I  walked  up  the  old  glen  where  the 
deserted  cabin  is.  The  very  breeze  went  whis- 
pering of  you  and  the  rustling  of  every  bush 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  47 

sounded  like  your  name.  The  sky  was  duller  and 
the  grass  less  green.  Even  the  squirrels  sat  up 
to  ask  where  you  were  with  the  chestnuts  you  al- 
ways brought  them.  Nothing  is  the  same ;  I  am 
infinitely  lonely  here,  and  yet  I  stay  on  where 
everything  means  you !  When  I  walk  it  seems  as 
if  you  must  be  waiting,  smiling,  just  around 
every  bend  of  the  rock — just  behind  every  clump 
of  ferns — to  tell  me  it  was  all  a  foolish  fancy,  that 
you  love  me  and  have  not  gone  away !  You  are 
all  things  to  me,  dear.  I  cannot  live  without  you. 
I  want  you — I  need  you  so !  I  never  knew  how 
much  before. 

"Only  tell  me  what  your  letters  have  not,  that 
you  do  not  love  me — that  you  were  mistaken — 
that  it  was  all  a  folly,  a  madness — and  I  will 
never  ask  again!  Ah,  but  I  know  you  will  not; 
you  cannot.  You  do!  You  do!  I  have  that 
one  moment  to  remember  when  I  held  you  in 
my  arms,  when  your  throat  throbbed  against 
my  cheek,  when  your  lips  were  on  mine,  when 
your  arms  went  up  around  my  head,  and  when  I 


48  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

could  feel  your  heart  beating  quick  against  me. 
Your  breath  was  trembling  and  your  eyes  were 
like  stars!  Can  you  ask  me  to  forget  that,  the 
moment  that  I  seemed  to  have  always  lived  and 
kept  myself  for? 

"It's  impossible !  This  must  be  a  passing  mood 
of  yours  which  will  vanish.  Love  is  a  stronger 
thing  than  that!  I  don't  know  the  thing  that 
is  troubling  you — I  can't  guess  it — but  I  am 
sure  of  you.  I  know  you  in  a  larger,  deeper  way, 
and  in  the  end  you  will  never  disappoint  me  in 
that! 

"I  am  hoping,  longing,  waiting.  Let  me  come 
to  you!  Let  me  see  you  face  to  face,  and  read 
there  what  the  matter  is ! 

"Remember  that  I  am  still 

"Your  own, 

"R." 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  49 


Margaret  to  Daunt. 

"  'THE  BEECHES,'  WARNE. 

"I  have  been  touched  by  your  last  letter.  I 
had  not  intended  to  write  again,  yet  somehow  it 
seems  as  if  I  must.  Can  you  read  between  these 
lines  that  I  am  unhappy?  I  have  been  to  blame, 
Richard,  so  much  to  blame ;  but  I  didn't  know  it 
till  afterward. 

"I  can't  answer  your  question ;  it  isn't  whether 
I  love  you — it's  how.  Doesn't  that  tell  you  any- 
thing? I  mustn't  be  mistaken  in  the  way.  You 
must  not  try  to  see  me;  it  would  only  make  me 
more  wretched  than  I  am  now,  and  that  is  a 
great  deal  more  than  I  could  ever  tell  you. 

"M." 


50  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

Daunt  to  Margaret. 

"If  you  won't  have  any  pity  for  yourself,  for 
heaven's  sake  have  some  for  me!  What  am  / 
to  do?  7  haven't  any  philosophy  to  bear  on  the 
situation.  I  can't  understand  your  objections. 
Your  way  of  reasoning  your  emotions  is  simply 
ghastly.  The  Lord  never  intended  them  to  be 
reasoned  with !  We  can't  think  ourselves  into 
love  or  out  of  it  either.  At  least  7  can't.  I've 
gone  too  far  to  go  backward.  Since  you  went  I 
have  been  one  long  misery — one  long,  aching 
homesickness. 

"You  ask  me  not  to  'humiliate'  you  by 
asking  for  your  reasons.  Don't  you  think  7  am 
humiliated  ?  Don't  you  think  7  suffer,  too  ?  And 
yet  it  isn't  that;  my  love  isn't  so  mean  a  thing 
that  it  is  my  vanity  that  is  hurt  most.  If  I  be- 
lieved you  didn't  love  me,  that  might  be;  but  if 
you  could  leave  me  as  you  have — without  a 
chance  to  speak,  with  nothing  but  a  line  or  two 
that  only  maddened  me — you  wouldn't  hesitate  to 
tell  me  the  truth  now. 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  51 

"You  do  love  me,  Margaret !  You're  torturing 
yourself  and  torturing  me  with  some  absurd  hal- 
lucination. Forgive  me,  dear — I  don't  mean  that 
— only  it's  all  so  puzzling  and  it  hurts  me  so! 
I'm  all  raw  and  bleeding.  My  nerves  are  all 
jangles. 

"I  can  only  see  one  thing  clearly — that  you 
are  wrong,  and  you'll  see  it.  Only  somehow  I 
can't  make  you  see  it  yet ! 

"DAUNT/' 


V. 


The  warm  October  weather  lay  over  the  Dren- 
nen  homestead  at  Warne.  This  was  a  house 
gigantic  and  austere,  its  gray  stone  walls  throw- 
ing into  relief  its  red  brick  porch,  veined  with 
ivy  stems,  like  an  Indian's  face,  whose  warrior 
blood  is  raging,  leant  against  a  rock  boulder. 

Under  the  shade  of  the  falling  vine-fringe 
Margaret  sat,  passive  and  quiet,  on  the  veranda. 
From  under  drooping  lids,  long-lashed,  her 
brown  eyes  looked  out  with  a  sort  of  sweet  and 
sober  studiousness.  Her  reddish-brown  hair  ap- 
peared the  color  of  old  metal  beaten  by  the  ham- 
mer here  and  there  into  a  lighter  flick  of  gold, 
rolling  back  from  her  straight  forehead  and 
caught  in  a  loose,  low  knot.  The  corners  of  her 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  53 

mouth  were  lifted  a  little,  giving  an  extra  ful- 
ness to  sensitive  lips,  and  the  long  rise  of  her 
cheek,  from  chin  to  temple,  was  without  a  dimple. 

The  haze  hung  an  opal  tint  over  the  blue  hill- 
sides and  lent  to  nearer  objects  a  dreamy  un- 
reality. The  atmosphere  reflected  Margaret's 
mood.  She  was  conscious  of  a  certain  tired 
numbness.  Her  acts  of  the  past  few  weeks  had 
a  sort  of  elusiveness  in  perspective,  and  the  old 
house  at  Warne,  with  its  gloomy  stables,  taciturn 
servants,  its  familiar  occupants — even  she  herself 
— seemed  to  possess  a  curious  unreality. 

Across  the  field  ran  the  wavering  fringe  of 
willow  which  marked  the  little  sluggish  brook 
with  the  foot-log,  where  often  she  had  waded, 
slim-legged,  as  a  child.  There  was  the  old  stable 
loft  from  which  she  had  once  fallen,  hunting  for 
pigeons'  eggs.  There  were  the  same  gloomy 
holes  under  the  eaves,  from  which  awful  bat 
shapes  had  issued  for  her  childish  shuddering. 
Only  the  master  of  the  house  was  changed,  and 
he  was  Melwin  Drennen,  Lydia's  husband.  As  a 


54  -A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

child,  he  had  carried  her  on  his  shoulders  over  the 
fields  when  she  had  visited  the  place.  She  had 
liked  him  unaffectedly,  and  the  great  sorrow  of 
his  life  had  hurt  her  also. 

She  was  a  mere  child  then,  and  had  heard  it 
with  a  vague  and  wondering  pain.  It  had  been  a 
much-talked-of  match — that  between  her  cousin 
and  this  man — and  it  was  only  a  week  after  the 
wedding,  at  this  same  old  place,  that  the  accident 
had  happened.  Lydia  had  been  thrown  from  her 
horse.  She  was  carried  back  to  a  house  of 
mourning.  The  decorations  were  taken  from  the 
walls,  and  great  surgeons  came  down  from  the 
city  to  ponder,  shake  their  heads,  and  depart. 
He,  loving  much,  had  hoped  against  hope.  Mar- 
garet remembered  hearing  how  he  had  sat  all  one 
night  outside  her  door,  silent,  with  his  head 
against  the  wainscoting  and  his  hands  tight  to- 
gether— the  night  they  said  she  would  die. 

And  that  was  twelve  years  ago !  She  had  bet- 
tered slightly,  grown  stronger,  walked  a  little, 
then  declined  again.  Now  for  five  years  past  her 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  55 

life  had  been  a  colorless  exchange  of  bed  and  re- 
clining-chair,  and,  in  this  period,  she  had  never 
left  the  house. 

Margaret  shivered  in  the  sun  as  she  thought. 
At  intervals  she  had  heard  of  his  life.  "Such  a 
lovely  life !"  people  said.  She  had  thought  of  his 
self-sacrifice  and  devotion  as  something  very 
beautiful.  It  had  been  an  ever-present  ideal  to 
her  of  spiritual  love.  In  her  own  self-dissatisfac- 
tion she  had  flown  to  this  haven  instinctively,  as 
to  a  dear  example.  A  strange  desire  to  stab  her- 
self with  the  visual  presence  of  her  own  lack  had 
possessed  her.  But  in  some  way  the  steel  had 
failed  her.  She  was  conscious  now  of  a  vague 
self-reproach  that  her  greater  sorrow  was  for 
Melwin  and  not  for  the  invalid.  Surely  Lydia 
was  the  one  to  be  sorry  for,  and  yet  there  was  an 
awfulness  about  the  life  he  led  that  she  was 
coming  to  feel  acutely. 

The  crying  incompletion,  the  negative  hollow- 
ness  of  it,  had  smote  her.  His  full  life  had 
stopped,  like  a  sluggish  stream.  His  vitality,  his 


56  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

energies,  could  not  go  ahead.  He  was  bound 
through  all  these  years  to  the  body  of  this  death. 
Love  had  broadened  his  gaze,  lifted  his  horizon, 
and  then  Fate  had  suddenly  reared  this  crystal, 
impassable  wall,  through  which  he  must  ever 
gaze  and  ever  be  denied.  He  was  condemned 
still  to  love  her  and  to  watch  agonizedly  the  slen- 
der gradations,  the  imperceptible  stages  by 
which  she  became  less  and  less  of  her  old  self  to 
him. 

Margaret  gazed  out  across  the  velvet  edge  of 
the  hills,  and  felt  a  sense  of  dissatisfaction  in  the 
color  harmony.  A  doubt  had  darkened  the  win- 
dows of  her  soul  and  turned  the  golden  sunlight 
to  a  duller  chrome.  She  was  so  absorbed  that 
she  caught  a  sharp  breath  as  the  French  window 
behind  her  clicked  raspingly  and  swung  inward 
on  its  hinges.  It  was  Melwin. 

He  came  slowly  forward  through  the  window, 
holding  his  head  slightly  on  one  side  as  though 
he  listened  for  something  behind  him.  She 
found  herself  wondering  how  he  had  acquired 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  57 

the  habit.  His  face  was  motionless  and  set,  with 
a  peculiar  absence  of  placidity — like  a  graven 
image  with  topaz  eyes.  To  Margaret  it  sug- 
gested a  figure  on  an  Egyptian  bas-relief,  and 
yet  he  looked  much  the  same,  she  thought,  as  he 
had  ten  years  before.  Perhaps  his  beard  was 
grayer  and  he  was  more  stoop-shouldered,  and — 
yes,  his  temples  looked  somehow  hollower  and 
older.  He  had  a  way  of  pausing  just  before  the 
closing  word  of  a  question,  giving  it  a  quaint 
and  unnatural  emphasis,  and  of  gazing  above  and 
past  one  when  he  spoke  or  answered.  When  he 
had  first  greeted  her  on  her  arrival,  Margaret  had 
turned  instinctively  in  the  belief  that  he  had 
spoken  to  some  one  unperceived  behind  her. 

"Will  you  go  in  to — Lydia?"  he  said,  diffi- 
cultly. "I  think  she  wants  you." 

As  Margaret  came  down  the  stairway  a  mo- 
ment later,  tying  the  ribbons  of  her  broad  hat 
under  her  chin,  his  look  of  inquiry  met  her  at  the 
door,  and  the  tinge  of  eagerness  in  his  lack- 


58  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

lustre  eyes  faded  back  into  stolidity  again  as  she 
told  him  it  was  only  an  errand  for  Lydia. 

She  jumped  from  the  piazza  and  raced  around 
the  drive  toward  the  stables.  Creed,  the  coach- 
man, whose  wool  was  growing  gray  in  a  lifetime 
of  allegiance  to  the  Whiting  stock,  was  standing 
by  the  window,  holding  a  harvest  apple  for  the 
black,  reaching  lip  and  white,  impatient  teeth  of 
his  favorite  charge  inside  the  stall.  He  dropped 
his  currycomb  as  he  saw  her. 

"Mornin',  Miss  Marg'et.  Want  me  fur 
sump'n?" 

"No,  I  only  came  for  Mrs.  Drennen  to  see  how 
Sempire's  foot  is.  She  says  he  stepped  on  a 
stone." 

The  black  face  puckered  with  a  puzzled  look, 
that  broadened  into  a  smile  the  next  instant. 

"Marse  Drennen  done  tole  dat  to  Miss  Liddy  ez 
a  skuse  fo'  he  not  ridin'  mo'.  She  all  de  time 
tryin'  to  mek  he  git  out  an'  gallavant.  He  ain't 
nuver  gwine  do  dat  no  mo'.  Miss  Liddy,  she 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  59 

al'ays  worryin'  feared  Marse  Drennen  moutn't 
joy  heseff,  an'  he  al'ays  worryin'  cause  she  worry- 
in'.  She  mek  up  all  kinds  ob  things  fur  he  to  do 
dat  way,  an'  he  jes  humor  her  to  think  he  do  'em, 
an'  she  nuver  know  no  diffunce." 

Margaret  had  seated  herself  on  the  step  and 
was  looking  up.  "You've  always  been  with  her, 
haven't  you?" 

Creed  smiled  to  the  limit  of  his  heavy  lips. 
"  'Deed  I  hev.  When  Miss  Liddy  wuz  married 
she  purty  nigh  fou't  to  fetch  me  wid  her.  Her 
ole  maid  sister,  she  wantter  keep  me  wid  dee  all 
back  dar  in  New  O'leens.  You  see  I  knowed 
Miss  Liddy  when  she  warn't  a  hour  ole  an'  no 
bigger'n  a  teapot. 

"Meh  mammy  wuz  nussin'  de  li'l  mite  in  her 
lap  wid  a  hank'cher  ober  her,  an'  I  tip  in  right 
sorf  to  cyar  a  hick'ry  lorg  an'  drap  on  de  fiah. 
Dat  li'l  han'  upped  an'  pull  de  hank'cher  offen  her 
face  an'  look  at  me  till  I  git  cl'ar  th'oo  de  do'. 
She  wuz  de  peartest,  forward'st  young  'un !  An' 


60  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

she  growed  up  lak  she  started,  too.  Marse  Dren- 
nen  he  proud  lak  a  peacock  when  he  come  down 
dyar  frum  de  Norf  an'  cyared  her  off  wid  he." 

"I  remember  how  pretty  she  was."  Margaret 
spoke  softly. 

"Does  yo'  sho  'nuff?  She  wuz  jes  'bout  yo' 
age  den.  Her  ha'r  wuz  de  color  ob  a  gole  dollar, 
an'  her  eyes  wuz  blue  ez  a  catbird's  aig.  She 
wuz  strong  as  a  saplin',  an'  she  walk  high  lak  a 
hoss  whut  done  tuck  de  blue  ribbon  et  de  fa'r." 

Sempire  arched  his  shining  neck  and  whinnied 
gently  for  another  apple.  Creed  stroked  the  in- 
telligent face  affectionately.  "Whut  mek  yo'  go 
juckin'  dat  way?"  he  said.  "Cyarn't  you  see  I'se 
talkin'  to  de  ledy  ?" 

He  looked  into  the  fresh  young  face  beneath 
the  straw  hat  with  its  nodding  poppies  and  drew 
a  deep  breath. 

"It  do  hurt  me,  honey,  to  see  de  change !  Don't 
keer  how  hard  I  wucks,  I  feels  lonesome  to  see 
how  de  laugh  an'  song  done  died  in  her  froat. 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  61 

'Twuz  jes  one  stumble  dat  done  it.  She  an' 
Marse  Drennen  wuz  gallopin'  on  befo'  de  yuthers. 
Pres'n'y  she  look  back  to  see  ef  I  wuz  comin'.  De 
win'  wuz  blowin'  her  purty  ha'r  'bout  ev'y  way, 
an'  her  eyes  wuz  sparklin'  jes  lak  de  sun  on  de  ice 
in  de  waggin  ruts.  Jes  dat  minit  de  hoss  slip, 
an'  I  holler  an'  he  done  drap  in  er  heap  on  he 
knees,  an'  Miss  Liddy  she  fall  er  li'l  way  off  an' 
lay  still. 

"Seem  lak  meh  heart  jump  up  in  men  mouf. 
I  wuz  de  fust  one  dyar.  She  wuz  layin'  wid  her 
ha'r  ober  her  face  an'  her  po'  li'l  back  all  bent  up 
agin  de  groun' ! 

"Marse  Drennen  he  go  on  turrible.  He  kneel 
down  dyar  in  de  road  an'  kiss  her  awful,  an'  beg 
her  to  open  her  eyes,  an'  say  he  gwine  kill  dat 
hoss  sho'.  Den  we  cyared  her  back  to  de  house, 
an'  she  nuver  know  nuttin'  fo'  days  an'  days.  De 
gre't  doctors  do  nuttin'  fer  her.  She  jes  lay  an' 
lay,  an'  et  seem  lak  she  couldn't  move,  only  her 
haid.  Marse  Drennen  he  nuver  leabe  her.  He  jes 


62  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

set  in  de  cheer  an'  rock  heseff  back  an'  forf  lak 
a  baby  an*  look  at  her  an'  moan  same's  he  feelin' 
et  too. 

"He  don'  nuver  git  ober  et  no  mo'.  Peers  lak 
she'd  git  erlong  better  now  ef  he  didn't  grieve  so. 
He  hole  he  haid  up  al'ays  when  he  roun'  her.  He 
wuz  bleeged  to  do  dat,  to  keep  her  from  seein' 
he  disapp'inted,  'cause  she  wuz  al'ays  sickly  an' 
in  baid  to  nuver  rekiver.  He  face  sorter  light  up 
wid  her  lookin'  on,  an'  he  try  to  cheer  her  up, 
meckin'  out  dat  tain'  meek  no  diffunce.  Hit  did, 
do' !  He  git  out  o'  her  sight,  he  look  so  moanful ; 
he  ain't  jolly  an'  laughin'  lak  when  he  wuz  down 
Souf  co'tin',  an'  I  hole  he  hoss  till  way  late. 

"She  al'ays  thinkin'  ob  him  now,  an'  he  don' 
keer  fer  nuttin' — jes  sit  wid  he  chin  in  bofe  ban's 
on  de  po'ch  lookin'  down.  He  heart  done  got 
numbed.  Seems  lak  de  blood  done  dried  up  in 
he  veins  an'  some  time  he  gwine  to  shribble  up 
lak  er  daid  tree  whut  nuver  gwine  show  no  red 
an'  yaller  leabes  no  mo'.  He  jes  live  al'ays  lak 
he  done  los'  sump'n  he  couldn'  fin'  nowhar." 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  63 

Margaret  arose  from  the  step  as  he  paused 
and  turned  his  dusky  face  away  to  pick  up  the 
fallen  currycomb. 

As  she  walked  back  to  the  house  Melwin's  fig- 
ure as  she  had  seen  him  on  the  porch  rose  before 
her  memory — the  face  of  a  sleeper,  with  the  look 
of  another  man  in  another  life.  Before  her  misty 
eyes  it  hung  like  a  suspended  mask  against  the 
background  of  the  drab  stone  walls. 


VI. 

The  frost  scouts  of  the  marshalling  winter  had 
fallen  upon  the  woods  which  skirted  the  Drennen 
estate,  and  the  great  beeches  were  crimsoning  in 
their  death  flush ;  the  maples  enchanting  with 
their  fickle  foliage,  some  still  clinging  to  their 
green,  and  others  brilliant  with  blushes  that  they 
must  soon  stand  naked  before  the  cold  stare  of 
the  sky.  Here  and  there  on  some  aspiring  knoll 
a  slim  poplar  rose  like  a  splendid  bouquet  of 
starting  yellow. 

At  a  turn  of  the  road,  which  wound  leisurely 
between  seamed  tree-boles,  Margaret  had  seated 
herself  upon  a  lichened  slab  of  stone.  Her 
loosely  braided  hair  lay  against  the  hood  of  her 
scarlet  cloak,  slipping  from  her  shoulders,  and 
she  seemed,  in  her  vivid  beauty,  the  incarnate 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  65 

spirit  of  the  blazonry  of  fall.  Her  head  was  bare 
and  her  clasped  hands,  dropped  between  her 
knees,  held  a  slender  book,  a  random  selection 
from  the  litter  of  the  library  table.  It  was  the 
story  of  Marpessa,  and  unconsciously  she  had 
folded  down  the  leaf  at  the  lines  she  had  just 
read  : 

"I  love  thee  then 

Not  only  for  thy  body  packed  with  sweet 
Of  all  this  world,  that  cup  of  brimming  June, 
That  jar  of  violet  wine  set  in  the  air, 
That  palest  rose,  sweet  in  the  night  of  life ; 
Nor  for  that  stirring  bosom  all  besieged 
By  drowsing  lovers,  or  thy  perilous  hair; 
****** 

Not  for  this  only  do  I  love  thee,  but 
Because  Infinity  upon  thee  broods, 
And  thou  art  full  of  whispers  and  of  shadows. 
Thou  meanest  what  the  sea  has  striven  to  say 
So  long,  and  yearned  up  the  cliffs  to  tell ; 
Thou  art  what  all  the  winds  have  uttered  not, 
What  the  still  night  suggesteth  to  the  heart. 
Thy  voice  is  like  to  music  heard  ere  birth, 
Some  spirit  lute  touched  on  a  spirit  sea ; 
Thy  face  remembered  is  from  other  worlds ; 
It  has  been  died  for,  though  I  know  not  when, 


66  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

It  has  been  sung  of,  though  I  know  not  where. 
It  has  the  strangeness  of  the  luring  West, 
And  of  sad  sea-horizons ;  beside  thee 
I  am  aware  of  other  times  and  lands, 
Of  birth  far  back,  of  lives  in  many  stars." 


With  the  broadening  half-smile  upon  her 
parted  lips  and  that  far  splendor  in  her  eyes,  she 
looked  as  might  have  looked  the  earthly  maiden 
for  whom  the  fair  god  and  the  passionate  human 
Idas  pledged  their  loves  before  great  Zeus. 

The  deadened  trampling  of  horse's  hoofs  upon 
the  soft,  shaly  road  beat  in  upon  her  reverie.  The 
horse,  moving  briskly,  was  abreast  of  her  as  she 
started  to  her  feet.  There  was  a  sharp,  surprised 
exclamation  from  the  rider,  a  snort  of  fear  from 
the  animal  as  he  shied  and  plunged  sideways 
from  the  flaring  apparition.  Almost  before  she 
could  cry  out — so  quickly  that  she  could  never 
afterward  recall  how  it  happened — the  thing  was 
done.  The  frantic  brute  reared  white-eyed,  rose 
and  pawed,  wheeling,  and  the  rider,  with  one 
foot  caught  and  dragging  from  the  stirrup-iron, 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  67 

was  down  upon  the  ground.  Margaret,  without 
reflection,  acted  instantly.  With  a  single  bend- 
ing spring  of  her  lithe  body  she  was  beside  the 
creature's  head,  her  slender  arms,  like  stripped 
willow  branches,  straining  and  tugging  at  his 
bit,  until  the  steel  clamps  cut  into  her  flesh.  She 
threw  all  the  power  of  her  arm  upon  the  heavy 
jaw,  and  with  one  hand  reached  and  clasped 
tight  just  above  the  great  steaming,  flame- 
notched  nostrils.  The  fierce  head  shook  from 
side  to  side  an  instant,  then  the  lifting  hoofs  be- 
came calm,  and  he  stood  still,  trembling.  Slip- 
ping her  hand  to  the  bridle,  she  turned  her  head 
for  the  first  time  and  was  face  to  face  with 
Daunt. 

She  gazed  at  him  speechless,  with  widening 
eyes.  A  leaping  joy  at  the  sight  of  him  mixed 
itself  with  a  realization  of  his  past  peril.  She 
felt  her  face  whiten  under  his  steadfast  gaze.  A 
thousand  times  she  had  imagined  how  they 
might  meet,  what  she  might  say,  how  she  would 
act,  and  now,  without  a  breath  of  warning,  Fate 


68  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

had  set  him  there  beside  her.  His  hand  lay  next 
hers  upon  the  rein  of  the  animal,  which  a  single 
faltering  of  her  ringer,  a  drooping  of  her  eyelash 
would  have  left  to  drag  him  helpless  to  a  terrible 
death.  A  breathless  thanksgiving  was  in  her 
soul  that  she  had  not  swerved  in  foot  or  hand. 

Suddenly  she  noticed  that  his  left  hand  hung 
limp,  and  her  whole  being  flamed  into  sympathy. 
"Oh,  your  poor  wrist !  You  have  hurt  it !"  Her 
fingers  drew  his  arm  up  to  her  sight.  Her  look 
caressed  his  hand. 

"It's  nothing,"  he  said  hastily,  but  with  com- 
pressed lips.  "I  must  have  wrenched  it  when  I 
tumbled.  How  awkward  of  me!" 

"It  was  I  who  frightened  your  horse;  and  no 
wonder,  when  I  jumped  up  right  under  his  feet." 

"And  in  that  cloak,  too!"  he  said,  his  eye 
noting  the  buoyancy  of  her  beauty  and  its  grace 
of  curve. 

The  rebellious  waves  of  her  brown  hair  had 
filched  rosy  lustres  from  her  garb,  and  the  blood 
painted  her  cheeks  with  a  stain  like  wild  moss- 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  69 

berries.  Her  eyes  chained  his  own.  She  had  not 
yet  released  his  hand,  but  was  touching  it  with 
the  purring  regard  of  a  woman  for  an  injured 
pet.  The  allurement  of  her  physical  charm 
seemed  to  him  to  pass  from  her  finger-tips  like 
pricklings  of  electricity  from  a  Leyden  jar. 

Daunt  shook  off  her  hand  with  an  uncontrol- 
lable gesture,  and  with  his  one  arm  still  thrust 
through  the  bridle,  drew  her  close  to  him  and 
kissed  her — kissed  her  hair,  her  forehead,  her 
half-opened  eyes,  her  mouth,  her  throat,  her  neck. 

She  felt  his  lips  scorch  through  her  cloak.  He 
dropped  upon  his  knees,  still  holding  her,  and 
showered  kisses  upon  the  rough  folds  of  her 
gown. 

"Margaret!"  he  cried,  "you  know  why  I  have 
come!  You  know  what  I  want!  I  want  you! 
Forgive  me,  but  I  couldn't  stay  away.  Do  you 
suppose  I  thought  you  meant  what  you  said  in 
those  letters?  Why  should  you  run  away  from 
me?  Why  did  you  leave  me  as  you  did?  What 
is  the  matter?" 


70  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

As  he  looked  up  at  her,  he  saw  that  the  light 
had  died  out  of  her  eyes.  Her  lips  were  trem- 
bling. Her  face  was  marked  by  lines  of  weari- 
ness. She  repulsed  him  gently  and  went  back  a 
few  steps,  gazing  at  him  sorrowfully. 

"You  shouldn't  have  come,"  she  said  then. 
"You  ought  to  have  stayed  away !  You  make  it 
so  hard  for  me!" 

"Hard  ?"  His  voice  rose  a  little.  "Don't  you 
love  me?  Have  you  quit  caring  for  me?  Is 
that  it?" 

"No— not  that." 

"Do  you  suppose,"  he  went  on,  "that  I  will 
give  you  up,  then  ?  You  can't  love  a  man  one  day 
and  not  love  him  the  next !  You're  not  that  sort ! 
Do  you  think  I  would  have  written  you — do  you 
think  for  one  minute  I  would  have  come  here,  if 
I  hadn't  known  you  loved  me?  What  is  this 
thing  that  has  come  between  us?  What  is  it 
takes  you  from  me?  Doesn't  love  mean  any- 
thing? Tell  me!"  he  said,  as  she  was  silent. 
"Don't  stand  there  that  way !" 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  71 

"How  can  I  ?"  she  cried.  "I  tried  to  tell  you  in 
those  letters." 

"Letters !"  There  was  a  rasp  in  Daunt's  voice. 
"What  did  they  tell  me?  Only  that  there  was 
some  occult  reason — Heaven  only  knows  what — 
why  it  was  all  over;  why  I  was  not  to  see  you 
again.  Do  you  suppose  that's  enough  for  me? 
You  don't  know  me !" 

"No,  but  I  know  myself." 

"Well,  then,  I  know  you  better  than  you  know 
yourself.  You  said  you  didn't  want  to  see  me 
again !  That  was  a  lie !  You  do  want  to  see  me 
again !  You're  nursing  some  foolish  self-decep- 
tion. You're  fighting  your  own  instincts." 

"I'm  fighting  myself,"  she  said;  "I'm  fighting 
what  is  weak  and  miserably  wrong.  I  can't  ex- 
plain it  to  you.  It  isn't  that  I  don't  know  what 
you  think.  I  don't  know  where  I  stand  with  my- 
self." 

"You  loved  me !"  he  burst  forth,  in  a  tone  al- 
most of  rage.  "You  loved  me !  You  know  you 
did!  Great  God!  you  don't  want  me  to  think 


72  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

you  didn't  love  me  that  day,  do  you?"  he  said,  a 
curiously  hard  expression  coming  into  his  eyes. 
"I  don't  know."  She  spoke  wearily.  "I — don't 
— know.  How  can  I  know?  Don't  you  see,  it 
isn't  what  I  thought  then — it  isn't  what  I  did.  It's 
what  was  biggest  in  my  thought.  Oh — "  she 
broke  off,  "you  can't  understand!  You  can't! 
It's  no  use.  You're  not  a  woman." 

"No,"  he  said  roughly,  "I'm  not  a  woman.  I'm 
only  a  man,  and  a  man  feels !" 

"I  know  you  think  that  of  me,"  she  said 
humbly.  "But,  indeed,  indeed,  I  don't  mean  to 
be  cruel — only  to  myself." 

"No,  I  suppose  not!"  retorted  Daunt  bitterly. 
"Women  never  mean  things !  Why  should  they  ? 
They  leave  that  to  men!  Do  you  suppose,"  he 
said  with  quick  fierceness,  "that  there  is  anything 
left  in  life  for  me  ?  Is  it  that  I've  fallen  in  your 
estimation?  You  thought  I  was  strong,  perhaps, 
and  now  you  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
I'm  weak !  And  the  fact  that  it  was  you  and  that 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  73 

you  felt  too  makes  no  difference.  I've  heard  of 
women  like  that,  but  I  never  believed  there  were 
any !  You  wash  your  feeling  entirely  out  of  your 
conscience,  and  I'm  the  one  who  must  hang  for 
it.  And  in  spite  of  it  all,  you're  human !  Do  you 
think  I  don't  know  that?" 

She  put  out  her  hands  as  if  to  ward  off  a  tan- 
gible blow.  "Don't,"  she  said  weakly,  "please 
don't!" 

"Don't?"  he  repeated.  "Does  it  hurt  to  speak 
of  it  ?  Do  you  want  to  forget  it  ?  Do  you  think 
I  ever  shall?  I  don't  want  to.  It's  all  I  shall 
have  to  remind  me  that  once  you  had  a  heart !"  . 

"No!  no!"  she  cried  vehemently.  "You  must 
understand  me  better  than  that!  Don't  you  see 
that  I  want  to  do  what  you  say?  Don't  you  see 
that  my  only  way  is  to  fight  it?  It  is  I  who  am 
weak!  Oh,  it  seems  in  the  past  month  I  have 
learned  so  much !  I  am  too  wise !" 

"Wait,"  he  said;  "can  you  say  truly  in  your 
heart  that  you  do  not  love  me  ?" 


74  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

"That— isn't  it,"  she  stammered. 

"It  is !"  he  flamed.  "Tell  me  you  don't  love  me 
and  I  will  go  away." 

She  was  silent,  twisting  up  her  fingers  with  a 
still  intensity. 

"Tell  me !" 

"But  there's  so  much  in  loving.  It  has  so 
many  parts.  We  love  so  many  ways.  We  have 
more  of  us  than  our  bodies.  We  have  souls." 

"I'm  not  a  disembodied  spirit,"  he  broke  in. 
"I  don't  love  you  with  any  sub-conscious  essence. 
I  don't  believe  in  any  isms.  I  love  you  with 
every  fibre  of  my  body — with  every  beat  of  my 
heart — with  every  nerve  and  with  every  thought 
of  my  brain !  I  love  you  as  every  other  man  in 
all  the  world  loves  every  other  woman  in  the 
world.  I'm  human;  and  I'm  wise  enough  to 
know  that  God  made  us  human  with  a  purpose. 
He  knows  better  than  all  the  priests  in  the  world. 
How  do  you  want  to  be  loved  ?  I  tell  you  I  love 
you  with  all — all — body  and  mind  and  soul! 
Now  do  you  understand  ?" 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  75 

"It's  not  that!"  she  cried.  "It's  how  I  love 
you.  Oh,  no ;  I  don't  mean  that !" 

"I  don't  care  how  you  love  me!"  he  retorted. 
"I'll  take  care  of  that!  You  loved  me  enough 
that  once." 

"Ah,  that's  just  it!  I  forgot  everything.  I 
forgot  myself  and  you !  I  wanted  the  touch  of 
your  hands — of  your  face!  There  was  nothing 
else  in  the  whole  world!  Oh!"  she  gasped,  "do 
you  think  I  thought  of  my  soul  then  ?" 

"Listen!"  he  said,  coming  toward  her  so  that 
she  could  feel  his  hot  breaths.  "You're  morbid. 
You're  unstrung.  You  have  an  idea  that  one 
ought  to  love  in  some  subtle,  supernatural, 
heavenly  way.  That's  absurd.  We  are  made 
with  flesh-and-blood  bodies.  We  have  veins  that 
run  and  nerves  that  feel.  You  are  trying  to  for- 
get that  you  have  a  heart.  We  are  not  intended 
to  be  spirits — not  until  after  we  die,  at  any  rate." 

"But  we  have  spirits." 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "but  it's  only  through  our 
hearts,  through  our  mind's  hopes,  through  our 


76  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

affections,  that  we  know  it.  All  our  soul's  nour- 
ishment comes  through  the  senses.  That's  what 
they  were  given  us  for." 

"But  one  must  rule — one  must  be  master." 

Daunt  leaned  toward  her  and  caught  both  her 
hands  in  his  one.  "Ardee,  dear,"  he  said  more 
softly,  "don't  push  me  off  like  this !  Don't  resist 
so!  I  love  you — you  know  I  do.  This  is  only 
some  unheard-of  experiment  in  emotion.  Let  it 
go!  There's  nothing  in  the  world  worth  break- 
ing both  our  hearts  for  this  way.  There  can't  be 
any  real  reason!  Come  to  me,  dear!  Come 
back !  Come  back !  Won't  you  ?" 

At  the  softness  of  his  tone  her  eyes  had  filled 
slowly  with  tears. 

"I  mustn't!  Oh,  I  mustn't!  The  happiness 
would  turn  into  a  curse.  You  mustn't  ask  me !" 

Daunt  struggled  between  a  rising  pity  for  her 
suffering  and  a  helpless  frenzy  of  irritation.  Be- 
tween the  two  he  felt  himself  choking.  There 
seemed  in  her  a  resistance  and  an  implacable  hos- 
tility that  he  was  as  powerless  to  combat  as  to 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  77 

understand.  He  began  to  comprehend  the  ter- 
rible strength  that  lies  in  consistent  weakness. 
There  was  something  far  worse  in  her  silent 
mood  than  there  could  have  been  in  a  storm  of  re- 
proaches or  of  vehement  denial.  He  felt  that  if 
he  spoke  again  he  could  but  raise  higher  the  bar- 
rier between  them,  which  would  not  be  beaten 
down  by  sheer  force.  He  mounted,  stumblingly 
and  blindly,  his  left  hand  awkwardly  swinging, 
and,  turning  his  horse's  head,  spurred  him  into  a 
vicious  trot. 

A  bit  of  golden-rod  had  dropped  from  his  but- 
ton-hole when  he  had  crushed  her  in  his  embrace, 
and  as  he  disappeared  down  the  curved  road, 
under  the  passionate  foliage,  Margaret  slipped 
upon  her  knees  and  caught  the  dusty  blossom  to 
her  face  in  agonized  abandon.  Tears  came  to 
her  in  a  gusty  whirl  of  longing,  and  strangling 
sobs  tore  at  her  throat. 


VII. 

Nightshade  and  wistaria.  The  lusty  poison- 
vine  and  the  delicate  climbing  tendrils.  The  evil 
and  the  pure.  Their  snake-like  stems  wound 
about  each  other,  twining  in  sinuous  intimacy, 
the  cardinal  berries  flaunting  alone  where  the 
fragrant  purple  blooms  had  long  since  fallen. 
They  clung  to  each  other,  the  enmeshed  and  alien 
branches  veiling  a  sightless  trunk,  whose  rotted 
limbs,  barkless  and  neglected,  projected  bare 
knobs  complainingly  from  the  vagrant  tangle.  It 
drew  Margaret's  steps,  and  she  went  closer.  The 
dogs  that  had  followed  yelping  at  her  heels,  after 
she  had  tired  of  throwing  sticks  for  them  to 
fetch,  now  went  nosing  off  across  the  orchard  in 
canine  unsympathy  with  her  reflective  mood. 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  79 

She  stood  a  monochrome,  in  roughish  brown 
tweed,  under  the  dappling  shadows. 

"Miss  Langdon,  I  believe?" 

The  deep,  resonant  voice  recalled  her.  She 
saw  a  smooth-shaven  face  with  the  rounded  out- 
line that  belongs  to  youth,  and  is  but  rarely  the 
heritage  of  age,  surmounted  by  the  striking  in- 
congruity of  perfectly  milk-white  hair.  His  lips 
were  thin  and  firm,  suggesting  at  one  time 
strength  and  firmness,  and  the  glance  which  met 
her  from  the  frank,  hazel  eyes  was  one  of  open 
friendliness.  His  clerical  coat  was  close-but- 
toned to  his  vigorous  chin. 

"I  am  Dr.  Craig,"  he  said,  "rector  of  Trinity 
parish.  I  heard  that  Mrs.  Drennen  had  a  cousin 
visiting  her,  and  I  came  out  to  ask  you  to  come  to 
our  Sabbath  services.  We  haven't  as  ambitious  a 
choir,  perhaps,  as  you  have  in  your  city  church," 
he  said,  smiling,  " — though  we  have  one  tenor 
voice  which  I  think  quite  remarkable — but  we 
offer  the  same  message  and  just  as  warm  a  wel- 
come." 


8o  A  Fiirnace  of  Earth. 

Her  loneliness  had  wanted  just  such  a  greet- 
ing. "I  shall  be  glad  to  come!"  she  answered. 
"I  passed  the  church  only  yesterday  and  sat 
awhile  in  the  porch  to  rest.  It  is  so  peaceful,  set 
among  the  trees !" 

"You  seemed  entirely  out  of  the  world  as  I 
walked  up  the  path,"  he  said.  "I  could  almost 
see  you  think." 

"I  was  looking  at  this."  She  pointed  to  the 
clustering  vines. 

"What  an  audacious  climber !  Its  berries  have 
the  color  of  rubies.  And  a  wistaria,  too !" 

"I  was  thinking  when  you  came,"  she  con- 
tinued hesitatingly,  "what  a  pity  it  was  that  the 
two  should  have  ever  grown  together.  The  wis- 
taria has  an  odor  like  far-away  incense,  and  its 
leaves  are  tender  and  delicate-veined,  like  a 
climbing  soul.  The  nightshade  is  dark  green  and 
its  berries  are  sin-color.  They  don't  belong  to- 
gether, and  now  nobody  in  the  world  could  ever 
pull  them  apart  without  killing  them  both.  Isn't 
it  a  pity?" 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  81 

"Ah,  there  is  where  I  think  you  err !  That  bold, 
aspiring  sap  is  just  what  the  pallid  wistaria 
needs.  Its  perfume  is  less  insipid  for  the  min- 
gling earth-smell  of  the  other.  It  climbs  higher 
and  reaches  further  for  the  other's  strength. 
The  flora  of  nature  follows  the  same  great  law  as 
humanity.  Opposite  elements  combine  to  make 
the  strongest  men  and  women.  One  of  the  most 
valuable,  I  think,  of  the  suggestions  we  get  from 
the  vegetable  creation  is  the  thought  of  its  com- 
prehensive good.  Nothing  that  is  useful  is  bad, 
and  there  is  nothing  that  has  not  its  use.  What 
we  know  is,  the  higher  grows  and  develops  by 
means  of  the  lower."  His  fine  face  lifted  as  he 
spoke  with  conscious  dignity. 

To  Margaret,  in  the  untiring  challenge  of  her 
self-questionings,  his  view  brought  an  unworded 
solace.  Her  mind  grasped  eagerly  at  his  thought, 
puzzled  by  itself,  yet  reaching  for  the  visible 
spirituality  of  the  man.  His  face,  calm  and  with 
a  tinge  of  almost  priestly  asceticism,  was  a  tacit 
reassurance.  A  wish  to  hear  him  speak,  to  talk 


82  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

to  him,  came  to  her.  He  had  lived  longer  than 
she,  he  knew  so  much  more!  If  she  could  only 
ask  him !  If  she  only  knew  how  to  begin !  If 
some  instinct  could  only  whisper  to  his  mind's 
ear  the  benumbing  question  her  whole  being  bat- 
tled with,  without  her  having  to  put  it  into 
words!  Even  if  she  could — even  if  he  could 
guess  it — he  might  misunderstand.  No  girl  ever 
had  such  thoughts  before !  They  were  only  hers 
— only  hers,  to  hide,  to  bury  in  silence!  She 
blushed  hotly  to  think  that  she  had  ever  thought 
of  voicing  it  to  the  air.  A  guilty  horror,  lest  her 
face  might  betray  what  she  was  thinking,  bathed 
her.  She  could  never,  never  tell  it !  There  could 
be  no  help  from  outside.  Her  mind  must  strug- 
gle with  it  alone. 

She  started  visibly,  with  a  feeling  that  she  had 
been  overheard,  at  a  crunching  step  behind  them. 
Her  companion  greeted  the  arrival  with  the 
heartiness  of  an  old  acquaintance. 

"Ah,  Condy,"  he  said,  "much  obliged  for  that 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  83 

salve  of  yours.  It  has  quite  made  a  new  dog 
of  Birdo." 

"Thet  so?"  inquired  the  newcomer,  with  in- 
terest. "Et's  a  powerful  good  salve."  His 
straggling  yellow  beard  and  much-battered  straw 
hat  shed  a  mellow  lustre  on  his  leathery,  sun- 
tanned face,  where  twinkled  clear  blue  eyes. 

"I've  jest  been  up  by  th'  kennels,"  he  volun- 
teered. 

"I  hope  you  found  the  family  all  well?"  the 
rector  inquired,  with  gravely  humorous  concern. 

"Toler'ble.  Th'  ole  mastiff  won't  let  me  git 
clost  'nough  t'  say  more'n  howdy  do.  He's  wuss 
'n  a  new  town  marshal!"  He  rasped  a  sulphur 
match  against  his  trouser-leg  and  lit  his  short 
clay  pipe,  hanging  his  head  awkwardly  to  do  so, 
and  disclosing  the  inquisitive  muzzle  and  beady 
eyes  of  a  diminutive  setter  pup,  which  he  carried 
under  his  butternut  coat,  supported  in  his  fore- 
arm. Margaret  patted  the  cold  nose,  and  its 
owner  displayed  it  pridefully. 

"He  ain't  but  three  weeks  old,"  he  said,  "en' 


84  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

I'm  a-bringin'  him  up  on  th'  bottle.  Ef  I  fetch 
him  eround  he'll  make  a  fine  setter  one  o'  these 
days,  fer  he's  got  good  points.  Look  at  th'  shape 
o'  his  toes!  Et  goes  agin  my  grain  t'  lose  a 
puppy.  Somehow  et  seems  ez  ef  they  hev  ez 
much  right  t'  live  ez  some  other  people."  His 
mouth  relaxed  broadly  about  his  pipe-stem,  with 
a  damp  smile. 

"What's  the  matter  with  him?"  asked  the  rec- 
tor. 

"Jest  ailin',  puny  like.  Dogs  ez  a  lot  like 
babies ;  some  on  'em  could  be  littered  en'  grow  up 
in  a  snowdrift,  en'  others  could  be  born  in  a 
straw  kennel  en'  die  ef  you  look  at  'em.  This  one 
was  so  weakly  thet  Bess,  my  ole  setter,  wouldn't 
look  at  him.  Jest  poked  him  eround  with  her 
nose,  poor  little  devil !  en'  wouldn't  give  him  ez 
much  ez  a  lick.  Et's  a  funny  thing,"  he  con- 
tinued, stuffing  down  the  embers  in  his  pipe  with 
a  hard  forefinger,  "th'  difference  there  ez  thet 
way  between  dogs  en'  folks.  I  never  seen  a 
woman  yit  thet  wouldn't  take  all  kinds  o'  keer  fer 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  85 

a  sick  baby,  but  a  dog  puts  all  her  nussin'  on  her 
healthy  young  uns  en'  lets  th'  ailin'  shift  fer  their- 
selves.  Mebbe  et's  because  she  hez  so  many  all  at 
once,  but  I  guess  it'd  be  the  same  with  women  ef 
they  hed  a  dozen  at  once  ez  et  ez  now.  The  par- 
son here" — he  blinked  at  Margaret  with  a  sus- 
picion of  levity — "says  ez  how  et's  because  th' 
dogs  ain't  got  no  souls.  I  don't  know  how  thet 
ez,  but  et  looks  ez  ef  et  might  be  so." 

The  rector  laughed  good-humoredly  as  the  de- 
creasing figure  silhouetted  itself  against  the  field. 
"Condy's  a  unique  character,"  he  said,  "but  im- 
mensely likable.  He  has  a  quaint  philosophy 
that  isn't  down  in  the  books,  but  it's  none  the  less 
interesting  for  that.  I  must  be  going  now,"  he 
continued ;  "  sermons  in  stones  and  books  in  run- 
ning brooks  won't  do  for  my  congregation." 
"You  will  go  up  to  the  house  and  see  Lydia  ?" 
"I  have  already  seen  her.  She  told  me  I  should 
find  you  somewhere  in  the  fields,  she  thought. 
Your  cousin  is  a  great  sufferer,"  he  added  gently. 
"She  is  a  beautiful  character — uncomplaining 


86  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

under  a  most  grievous  affliction.  I  am  deeply 
sorry  for  her,  and  yet" — there  was  a  note  of  per- 
plexity in  his  voice — "sometimes  I  believe  I  pity 
her  husband  even  more!  I  am  not  well  ac- 
quainted with  him  personally.  I  wish  I  might 
know  him  better.  She  often  speaks  to  me  of  him. 
Her  love  for  him  is  most  exquisite ;  it  always  re- 
minds me  of  the  perfume  of  the  night-blooming- 
cereus." 

He  took  his  leave  of  Margaret  with  grave 
courtesy  and  left  her  standing  on  the  leaf-littered 
grass,  with  the  red  berries  of  the  nightshade 
gleaming  through  the  rank  green  foliage  above 
her  head. 


VIII. 

Lydia's  reclining  chair  had  been  rolled  close  tc 
the  window  and  Margaret  sat  beside  her,  con- 
templating a  melancholy  drizzle,  mingled  with 
sweeping  gusts  of  rain.  The  chickens  stood  in 
huddled  groups  under  the  garden  shrubs,  and  the 
white  and  yellow  chrysanthemums,  from  their 
long,  bordering  beds,  shook  out  their  frowsy 
petals  and  drank  rejoicingly.  Margaret  loved  to 
watch  the  splash  of  the  shower  upon  the  fallen 
leaves.  Her  nature  reflected  no  neutral  tints; 
rain  and  gray  weather  to  her  had  never  been 
coupled  with  sadness. 

The  emaciated  hands  by  her  side  moved  rest- 
lessly in  the  afghan.  "What  a  bad  day  for  Mell," 
she  said.  "He  is  fond  of  the  saddle,  and  now  he 


88  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

will  come  home  wet  and  cold,  before  his  ride  is 
half  finished." 

Margaret  looked  at  her  curiously.  She  re- 
called Sempire's  stone-bruise  and  Creed's  ver- 
sion of  it.  Melwin  she  had  left  only  a  few 
minutes  before,  sitting  statue-like  in  the  library, 
with  his  chin  upon  his  hands.  She  felt  with  a 
smarting  of  her  eyelids  that  the  pathetic  decep- 
tion was  but  a  part  of  the  consideration,  the  ten- 
der, watching  guard  with  which  he  surrounded 
the  invalid's  every  thoughtfulness  of  him. 

"Margaret !"  Lydia  spoke  almost  appealingly, 
laying  a  hand  upon  her  arm,  "do  you  think  Mell 
seemed  happy  to-day  ?  You  remember  him  when 
we  were  married?  I've  seen  him  toss  you  many 
a  time,  as  a  little  girl,  on  his  shoulder.  Don't 
you  remember  how  he  used  to  laugh  when  he 
would  pretend  to  let  you  fall  over  backward? 
Does  he  seem  to  you  to  be  any  different  now? 
Not  older — I  don't  mean  that  (of  course  he  is 
some  older) — but  soberer.  He  used  to  have 
friends  out  from  the  city,  and  be  always  bird- 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  89 

hunting  or  playing  polo.  I  could  go  with  him 
then;  he  liked  to  have  me.  He  used  to  say  he 
wanted  to  show  me  off.  He  seems  to  be  so  much 
more  alone  now,  and  to  care  less  for  such  things. 
At  first  it  made  me  happy  to  think  that  he 
couldn't  enjoy  them  any  longer  when  I  couldn't 
share  them  with  him.  That  was  very  selfish,  I 
know,  and  now  his  not  taking  pleasure  in  them 
is  a  pain  to  me.  I  want  him  to.  He  is  so  good  to 
me !  It  seems  sometimes  as  if  I  were  a  reproach 
to  him.  I  am  so  helpless,  useless — such  a  hinder- 
ing burden.  I  can't  do  anything  but  go  on  lov- 
ing him.  If  I  could  only  help  him!  If  I  could 
dust  his  desk,  or  fill  his  pipe,  or  tend  the  prim- 
roses he  loves,  or  put  the  buttons  in  his  shirts  for 
him,  or  do  any  one  of  the  thousand  little  foolish 
things  that  a  woman  loves  to  do  for  her  hus- 
band !" 

Reaching  over,  Margaret  patted  her  hand 
gently.  The  patient  eyes  looked  up  at  her  hun- 
grily. 

"Oh,  Margaret,  if  I  could  only  know  that  he 


90  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

was  happy!  If  I  could  only  fill  his  life  wholly, 
completely,  to  the  brim !  I  feel  so  bodiless  lying 
here.  Other  women  must  mean  so  much  more  to 
their  husbands.  I  used  to  pray  to  die — to  be 
taken  away  from  him.  I  thought  that  he  would 
love  me  better  dead.  Love  doesn't  die  that  way 
— it's  living  that  kills  love.  And  I  couldn't  bear 
to  think  that  I  might  live  to  see  it  die  slowly,  hor- 
ribly, little  by  little;  and  I  watched,  oh,  so  jeal- 
ously !  for  the  first  sign.  It's  a  dreadful  thing  to 
be  jealous  of  life !  I  have  thought  that  if  it  could 
be  right  for  him  to  marry  another  woman  while 
I  was  still  his  wife — one  who  could  give  him  all 
I  lack — that  I  would  even  be  content,  if  he  were 
only  happy !  There  is  just  my  mind  left  now  for 
him  to  love,  and  the  mind,  so  denied,  rusts 
away." 

"But  your  soul  is  alive,"  said  Margaret  softly, 
"and  that  is  what  we  love  and  love  with.  It 
seems  to  me  that  the  most  beautiful  thing  in  the 
world  is  a  love  like  Melwin's  for  you — one  that  is 
all  spirit.  It  is  like  the  love  of  a  child  for  a  white 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  91 

star,  that  is  not  old  and  dusty  like  the  earth,  but 
pure  and  shining  and  very,  very  far  above  its 
head.  When  I  was  little  I  used  to  have  one  par- 
ticular star  that  I  called  my  own.  I  wouldn't 
have  been  happier  to  have  touched  it  or  to  have 
had  it  any  nearer.  I  was  contented  just  to  look 
up  to  it  and  love  it." 

"You're  a  genuine  comforter!"  said  Lydia,  a 
smile  of  something  more  nearly  approaching  joy 
than  Margaret  had  yet  seen  there  playing  upon 
her  lips.  "I  am  ungrateful.  It  is  wicked  of  me 
to  repine  as  I  do !  God  has  given  me  Mell's  love, 
and  every  day  it  winds  closer  around  me.  And 
he  loves  my  soul.  I  ought  to  think  how  much 
more  blest  I  am  than  other  women  whose  hus- 
bands do  not  care  for  them !  I  ought  to  spend  my 
time  thinking  of  him  and  not  of  myself!  Per- 
haps I  could  plan  more  little  pleasures  for  him. 
We  used  to  make  so  many  pretty  surprises  for 
each  other,  and  we  got  so  much  happiness  out  of 
them.  It  is  the  small  things  in  life  that  please 
us  most.  When  we  were  first  married,  I  studied 


92  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

all  the  little  ways.  I  wore  the  colors  he  was  fond 
of,  and  did  my  hair  as  he  thought  was  most  be- 
coming. Why,  I  wouldn't  have  put  on  a  ribbon 
or  a  flower  that  I  thought  he  did  not  like!  He 
set  so  much  store  by  those  things.  Do  you  see 
that  big  closet  on  the  other  side  of  the  room? 
Open  the  door.  There  are  all  the  dresses  that 
Mell  liked  me  in  when  we  were  married.  Do 
you  see  that  pearl  liberty  silk  with  the  valen- 
ciennes?  I  had  that  on  the  last  night  we  ever 
danced  together — the  night  before  I  was  hurt. 
He  liked  me  best  of  all  in  that." 

She  passed  her  hand  caressingly  over  the  shim- 
mering lengths  which  Margaret  had  spread  out 
across  her  knees.  "You  would  look  well  in  such 
a  gown,"  she  said.  "Your  hair  is  like  mine  was, 
only  a  shade  darker.  Put  the  skirt  on.  There! 
It  fits  you,  too !" 

A  stir  of  anticipation,  of  excitement,  over- 
spread her  languor.  "I  want  you  to  do  me  a 
favor ;  I  don't  believe  you'll  mind !  Take  dinner 
to-night  with  Melwin  downstairs.  I  am  tired  to- 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  93 

day  and  I  shall  go  to  sleep  early.  Wear  the  dress ; 
maybe  it  will  remind  him  of  the  way  I  looked 
then,  when  I  had  the  same  roses  in  my  cheeks. 
He  called  them  holly  berries.  Will  you  wear  it?" 

Margaret  turned  away  under  pretense  of  ex- 
amining the  yellow  lace.  "Oh,  yes,"  she  said, 
"and  I  have  a  cameo  pin  that  will  just  suit  to 
clasp  it  at  the  throat." 

"No,  no!"  Lydia  had  half  raised  herself  on 
her  elbow.  "In  my  box  on  the  dresser  is  a  string 
of  pearls.  Mell  gave  me  them  to  go  with  it." 

She  took  the  ornament  and,  with  an  exclama- 
tion of  delight,  unfastened  the  neck  of  her  night- 
gown and  clasped  it  around  her  throat.  Drop- 
ping her  chin  to  see  how  the  lustreless  spheres 
drooped  across  the  pitiful  hollows  of  her  neck, 
she  gave  them  back  with  a  sigh  that  was  sadder 
than  any  words  and  turned  her  head  wearily  on 
the  pillow. 

Margaret  gathered  up  the  garments  tenderly, 
and  bent  over  and  left  a  light  kiss  on  the  faded 
cheek  as  she  went  from  the  room. 


IX. 

Margaret  stood  before  the  cheval-glass  in 
Lydia's  gown,  smiling  at  the  quaint  reflection. 
It  showed  a  figure  with  slim,  pointed  waist  be- 
tween billowy  paniers,  flounced  with  Spanish 
frill  after  the  fashion  of  a  decade  before.  The 
neck  was  square-cut  and  the  tight  sleeves  reach 
ed  to  the  elbow,  ending  in  a  fall  of  lace.  It  was 
not  unbecoming  to  her.  Her  brown  eyes  had  bor- 
rowed from  the  pearl  tint  a  misty  violet  and  the 
springing  growth  of  her  hair  had  taken  on  the 
shade  of  wet  broom-straw.  A  faint  glow  rose 
in  her  cheeks  as  she  surveyed  her  own  stirring 
image.  She  clasped  the  close  necklace  of  pearls 
about  her  throat.  Poor  Lydia!  Something  as 
fair  she  must  have  looked  in  that  old  time  so 
rudely  ended !  Poor  Melwin ! 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  95 

The  wide  dining-room  doors  stood  open,  and 
she  did  not  pause,  but  went  directly  in.  The  old 
butler  stood  in  the  hall,  and  she  noticed  wonder- 
ingly  that  he  gazed  at  her  with  a  scared  expres- 
sion and  moved  backward,  his  arms  stretched  be- 
hind him  in  an  instinctive  gesture  of  fright  which 
puzzled  her.  Were  even  the  ancient  servitors  of 
the  house  as  incomprehensible  as  was  their 
master  ? 

Melwin  stood  leaning  against  the  polished  rose- 
wood sideboard,  his  unseeing  gaze  fixed  on  a 
glass-prismed  candelabra  of  antique  workman- 
ship, whose  pendants  vibrated  ceaselessly.  His 
lifted  stare,  which  went  beyond,  suddenly  caught 
and  fastened  itself  upon  her  in  a  look  of  startled 
fascination.  His  lean  fingers  gripped  the  edge 
of  the  wood  and  he  stiffened  all  over  like  a  wild 
animal  couched  to  spring.  His  shrunken  fea- 
tures were  marked  with  a  convulsion  of  fearful 
anguish.  Margaret  shrank  back  dismayed  at  the 
lambent  fire  that  had  leaped  into  his  colorless 
eyes. 


96  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

"Lydia!"  The  cry  burst  from  his  lips  as  he 
made  a  quick  step  toward  her. 

"Why,  Melwin!"  she  gasped,  "what  is  the 
matter?" 

The  table  was  between  them,  but  she  could 
see  that  he  was  shaking.  His  eyes  turned  from 
her  to  the  opposite  wall,  then  back  again.  Her 
gaze  followed  his  and  rested  upon  a  splendid  full- 
length  portrait.  She  knew  at  once  that  it  was 
Lydia.  But  she  saw  in  that  one  instant  more 
than  this;  she  saw  her  own  face,  radiant,  spark- 
ling, the  same  lightened,  straw-tinted  hair,  the 
same  shadowy  violet  eyes,  the  same  gown,  pearl 
gray,  quaintly  cut,  that  had  faced  her  in  the 
depths  of  the  cheval-glass. 

"Melwin,  don't  you  know  me?  Why,  it's  I — 
Margaret !" 

His  lips  lifted  from  his  teeth.  Even  through 
the  strained  agony  of  his  face,  she  could  have 
imagined  him  about  to  laugh.  It  seemed  a  min- 
ute before  his  voice  came,  and  when  it  did  it 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  97 

scourged  her  like  a  sting  of  a  lash.  She  cringed 
under  its  livid  fury. 

"How  dare  you?  How  dare  you  come  to  me 
like  that?  Do  you  think  a  man  is  a  stone?  Do 
you  think  he  has  no  feeling,  that  you  can  torture 
him  like  this?  Do  you  think  he  never  remem- 
bers or  suffers?  Is  there  nothing  in  his  past 
that's  too  sacred  to  lay  hands  upon?" 

"It  was  Lydia,  Melwin,"  cried  Margaret,  her 
fingers  wandering  stumblingly  along  the  low 
neck  of  the  gown;  "she  asked  me  to  do  it.  She 
thought  it  would  please  you.  She  thought  it 
would  remind  you  of  the  way  she  used  to  look." 

"She  told  you  ?"  A  softer  expression  came  to 
his  face.  The  hard  lines  fell  away;  the  weary 
ghost  of  an  unborn  smile  hovered  on  his  lips, 
trembling  and  pathetic. 

"Don't  care !  Please,  please  don't  look  so !  I 
didn't  think!  I  will  go  away  at  once  and  take 
the  dress  off." 

He  laid  his  arms  upon  the  back  of  a  chair  and 


98  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

dropped  his  head  upon  them.  "Don't  mind  me, 
child,"  he  said  brokenly;  "you  couldn't  help  it. 
You  didn't  understand.  When  a  man's  flesh  has 
been  bruised  with  pincers,  when  his  sinews  have 
been  wrenched  and  dragged  as  mine  have,  he 
does  not  take  kindly  to  the  rack.  You  could 
have  wrung  my  heart  out  of  my  body  to-night 
with  your  hands,  and  it  would  not  have  hurt  so 
much." 

"I  am  so  sorry!"  Margaret  breathed,  warm 
gushes  of  pity  sweeping  over  her.  "You  could 
never  guess  how  sorry  I  am !" 

"I  suppose,"  he  said  more  calmly,  "that  I  have 
been  a  puzzle  to  you.  You  were  too  young  to 
know  me  when  I  lived.  I  am  only  half  alive 
now.  Life  has  gone  by  and  left  me  stranded. 
Look  at  that  picture,  child.  That  was  Lydia — 
the  Lydia  of  the  best  years  of  my  life — the  Lydia 
that  I  loved  and  won  and  married!  Twelve 
years !  How  long  ago  it  seems !" 

Margaret  had  seated  herself  opposite  him  and 
leaned  forward,  her  bare  elbows  on  the  table  and 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  99 

her  locked  fingers  against  her  cheek.  "I — un- 
derstand now."  Her  voice  was  a  strenuous 
whisper. 

"You  will  know  what  that  is  some  time — to  feel 
one  nearer  than  all  the  world — to  tremble  when 
her  arm  presses  yours,  to  listen  for  the  swish  of 
her  skirt,  to  turn  hot  and  cold  at  the  smell  of  her 
hair  or  the  touch  of  her  lips !  She  was  beautiful 
— more  beautiful  to  me  than  any  woman  I  had 
ever  seen,  or  ever  shall  see.  She  filled  every  cor- 
ner of  me !  Life  was  complete.  It  had  nothing 
left  to  give  me.  Can  you  think  what  that  means  ? 
You  know  what  happened  then.  It  came  crash- 
ing in  upon  my  youth  like  a  falling  tower.  Since 
then  the  years  have  gone  by,  but  they  stopped 
for  me  that  day." 

An  intenser  look  was  in  Margaret's  eyes. 
"But  you  have  Lydia — you  love  her !" 

He  breathed  sharply.  "Have  her!"  he  re- 
peated. "I  have  her  mind,  her  soul,  the  intellect 
that  answered  mine,  the  soul  that  leaned  to  my 
soul,  but  her — her — the  body  I  held,  the  woman 


ioo  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

I  caressed,  the  fragrant  life  I  touched — where 
is  it?  Where?  I  love  her!"  he  cried  with  ab- 
rupt passion.  "I  loved  her  then ;  I  love  her  now. 
I  have  never  loved  another  woman !  I  never  think 
a  thought  that  is  not  of  her.  My  very  dreams,  my 
imagination  are  hers!  I  would  rather  die  than 
love  another  woman! 

"I  suppose  people  pity  me  and  think  how  hard 
it  was  that  Lydia's  accident  couldn't  have  hap- 
pened before  we  were  married  instead  of  after- 
ward. Fools!  Fools  I  As  though  that  would 
make  it  different!  If  it  must  have  been,  I 
wouldn't  have  it  otherwise.  Not  to  possess 
wholly  the  woman  one  loves  is  the  cruelty  of 
Love;  the  pain  of  knowing  that  no  other  love 
can  possess  you  is  the  mercy  of  Love.  Such 
misery  is  dearer  than  all  other  joys.  She  is  mine, 
and  with  every  breath  that  I  curse  Fate  with  I 
thank  God  for  her!" 

"Isn't  that  happiness?" 

He  laughed,  a  short,  jarring,  mirthless  laugh 
that  hurt  her.  "Do  you  think,"  he  said,  "that 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  101 

that  is  all  a  man  craves?  Can  a  man — a  living, 
breathing  man — live  on  soul  alone?  Can  you 
feed  a  starving  human  being  on  philosophy? 
His  stomach  cries  for  bread!  You  can  quench 
his  spiritual  thirst  while  his  heart  dries  up  with 
physical  drought.  He  wants  both  sides.  With 
one  unsatisfied,  he  goes  halting,  crippled.  I  live 
in  my  past  and  feed  on  the  husks  of  it.  Do  you 
think  they  fill  me?  I  tell  you,  I  go  always 
hungry — always  famishing  for  what  other  men 
have!" 

Margaret  felt  as  if  she  were  being  wafted 
through  some  intangible  inferno  of  suffering. 
She  felt  smothered,  as  by  the  dust  of  some  dead 
thing  into  whose  open  grave  she  had  unwittingly 
stumbled.  The  real  Melwin  that  she  had  waked 
terrified  her.  The  glimpse  through  the  torn 
mask,  into  the  distorted  face,  with  its  marks  of 
branding,  shook  the  depths  of  her  nature.  She 
had  always  thought  of  Melwin  abstractly,  as  of  a 
beautiful  personality,  crowned  with  spiritual 
stars  and  haloed  with  pain ;  now  she  saw  him  as 


IO2  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

he  was — a  half-man,  decrepit,  moribund,  his  pas- 
sion no  living  glow,  but  a  flitting  and  unreal  fox- 
fire, which  he  must  follow,  follow,  grasping  at, 
but  never  gaining.  The  dreadful  unfulfilment  of 
his  life's  promise  sat  upon  his  brow  and  cried  to 
her  from  every  word  and  gesture.  She  felt  as  if 
she  was  gazing  at  some  mysterious  and  but  half- 
indicated  problem  to  which  there  could  be  no 
answer. 

That  was  a  meal  which  Margaret  never  after- 
ward remembered  without  a  recoil.  A  chilling 
self-consciousness  had  fallen  upon  her  and  clog- 
ged her  tongue.  Melwin  ate  hastily  and  almost 
fiercely,  saying  nothing,  and  once  half  rising,  it 
seemed  in  utter  forgetfulness  of  her  presence, 
and  then  sitting  down  again.  She  excused  her- 
self before  the  coffee  and  slipped  away,  running 
hastily  up  the  stair  to  her  room,  her  feet  catch- 
ing in  the  unaccustomed  tightness  of  the  old- 
fashioned  skirt. 

As  she  turned  the  key  in  the  lock,  she  fancied 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  103 

she  heard  a  moan  through  the  thick  walls  of 
Lydia's  room,  and  she  tore  off  the  garments  with 
feverish  haste,  shutting  them  from  her  sight  in 
the  carved  Dutch  chest  which  filled  one  corner, 
releasing,  as  she  did  so,  a  pungent  odor  of  cedar ; 
not  the  fresh,  resinous  smell  of  sappy  forest- 
growth,  but  the  dead-faint  aroma  of  the  past — 
the  perfume  that  belonged  to  Lydia's  gown,  to 
Melwin,  and  to  that  gloomy  house  and  all  it  con- 
tained. 

She  pushed  open  the  heavy  blinds  and  leaned 
across  the  window  ledge,  questioning.  Melwin 
was  a  man — but  Lydia  ?  Had  she  also  this  inner 
buried  side,  which  in  him  had  been  shocked  into 
betrayal?  Were  men  and  women  alike?  Were 
their  longings  and  cravings  the  same?  Was 
there  something  in  the  one  which  felt  and  an- 
swered the  every  need  of  the  other  ?  Was  spirit- 
ual attraction  forever  dependent  for  its  comple- 
tion upon  physical  love?  The  thought  came  to 
her  that  in  the  long  years  Melwin  had  become  less 
himself ;  that  his  brooding  mind  had  perhaps  lost 


IO4  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

its  balance ;  that  what  to  a  healthier  mind  would 
be  but  a  shadow  had  grown  for  him  a  threaten- 
ing phantom.  Her  heart  was  full  of  a  vague  pro- 
test against  the  suggestion  which  had  thrust  itself 
upon  her. 

Her  spiritual  side  reached  out  groping  hands 
for  comfort  and  sustenance. 

Drawing  down  the  window,  she  turned  into  the 
room.  A  ponderous  Bible  in  huge  blocked  leath- 
ern covers  lay  on  the  low  table,  its  antiquated 
silver  clasps  winking  in  the  light  from  the 
pronged  candlestick.  With  a  sudden  impulse, 
she  threw  it  open,  leaning  forward,  her  fingers 
nervously  ruffling  its  edges.  This  was  the  soul- 
comforter  of  the  ages.  It  must  help  her. 

"Hadad  died  also.     And  the  dukes  of  Edom 

were;  duke  Timnah,  duke  Aliah,  duke  Jetheth, 

"Duke  Aholibamah,  duke  Elah,  duke  Pimon." 

The  musty  chronicle  meant  nothing.  She 
turned  again,  parting  the  leaves  near  to  the  end. 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  105 

"Salute  Prisca  and  Aquila,  and  the  household 
of  Onesiphorus. 

"Erastus  abode  at  Corinth:  but  Trophimus 
have  I  left  at  Miletum  sick." 

She  almost  laughed  at  the  banality  of  her  hap- 
hazard choice.  She  knew  the  pages  full  of  con- 
demnation for  the  unworthy  thought.  Now  they 
mocked  her.  Impatiently  she  opened  the  huge 
volume  wide  in  the  middle.  A  new  and  intense 
eagerness  illumed  her  face  as  her  eyes  rested 
on  the  page : 

"Behold,  thou  art  fair,  my  love;  behold,  thou 
art  fair ;  thou  hast  doves'  eyes. 

"My  beloved  spake,  and  said  unto  me,  Rise 
up,  my  love,  my  fair  one,  and  come  away. 

"By  night  on  my  bed  I  sought  him  whom  my 
soul  loveth:  I  sought  him,  but  I  found  him 
not. 

"My  beloved  is  white  and  ruddy,  the  chiefest 
among  ten  thousand. 


io6  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

"His  head  is  as  the  most  fine  gold,  his  locks  are 
bushy,  and  black  as  a  raven. 

"His  eyes  are  as  the  eyes  of  doves  by  the  rivers 
of  waters,  washed  with  milk,  and  fitly  set. 

"His  cheeks  are  as  a  bed  of  spices,  as  sweet 
flowers :  his  lips  like  lilies,  dropping  sweet- 
smelling  myrrh.*  *  * 

"His  mouth  is  most  sweet :  yea,  he  is  altogether 
lovely." 

She  looked  up  startled,  her  breath  struggling 
in  her  breast ;  a  deep,  vivid  blush  spread  over  her 
face  and  neck,  glowing  crimson  against  the 
whiteness  of  her  apparel. 

The  room  seemed  suddenly  dense  with  a  dank, 
spicy  smell  of  roses  mixed  with  salty  wind.  It 
spread  from  the  pages  of  the  book  and  hung 
wreathing  about  her  till  the  air  was  filled  with 
fiery  flowers.  She  felt  herself  burning  hot,  as  if 
a  flame  were  scorching  her  flesh.  In  the  empti- 
ness of  the  room,  she  caught  her  hands  to  her 
cheeks  shamedly,  lest  the  world  could  see  that 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  107 

tell-tale  color.  Even  the  dim  candles'  light 
angered  her,  and  she  blew  them  out,  creeping  into 
the  soft  bed  hastily,  as  though  into  a  hiding- 
place. 


X. 

For  some  days  after  her  unforgettable  meeting 
with  Daunt  in  the  woods,  Margaret  had  not  left 
the  house.  She  had  spent  much  of  her  time 
reading  to  Lydia.  There  was  a  never  lessening 
sorrow  in  the  invalid's  gaze  that  affected  her, 
full  as  was  her  mind  of  her  own  thoughts,  and 
she  had  been  glad  to  sit  with  her  to  escape  the 
slow-burning  fires  that  haunted  her  in  Melwin's 
opaque  eyes. 

She  had  almost  a  fear  to  venture  beyond  the 
shelter  of  this  cheerless  home — a  fear  of  what 
she  longed  for  unspeakably  and  as  unspeakably 
dreaded.  She  told  herself  that  Daunt  was  gone, 
that  he  had  returned  to  the  city,  that  she  would 
not  see  him  again  at  Warne.  And  yet  her  inmost 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  109 

wish  belied  the  thought.  He  had  gone  away 
believing  her  cruel.  The  memory  tortured  her. 
An  instinctive  modesty,  as  innate  as  her  con- 
science, had  made  it  impossible  for  her  to  express 
in  words  the  distinction  which  her  own  sensitive- 
ness had  drawn.  To  think  of  it  was  an  intan- 
gible agony;  to  voice  it  was  to  penetrate  the 
veiled  sanctuary  of  her  woman-soul. 

But  the  afternoon  following  Melwin's  outburst 
in  the  dining-room,  her  flagging  spirits  and  the 
smell  of  the  cropped  fields  drew  her  out  of  doors. 
She  was  sore  with  a  sense  of  reproach  at  her  own 
unthinking  blunder.  Since  then  she  had  not  seen 
Melwin.  She  felt  how  awkward  would  be  the 
next  meeting. 

The  sunlight  splintered  against  low-sailing 
clumps  of  vapor  which  extended  to  the  horizon, 
and  the  chill  of  the  air  prompted  her  to  walk 
briskly.  She  did  not  take  the  wood  road,  but 
kept  to  the  open  country,  following  the  maple- 
lined  footpath  that  boarded  the  rusting  hedge- 
rows. There  was  little  promise  in  the  drooping, 


no  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

despondent  sky.  A  shiver  of  wind  was  in  the 
tall  grasses  and  a  far  whistling  of  a  flock  of 
marsh-birds  came  to  her  over  the  moist  fallow. 

A  darting  chipmunk  made  her  turn  her  head, 
and  she  became  conscious  that  a  figure  was  close 
behind  her.  An  intuitive  knowledge  flashed 
upon  her  that  it  was  Daunt.  A  vibrant  thrill 
shot  through  her  limbs  and  she  felt  her  cheeks 
heating. 

"Margaret !     Margaret !" 

She  turned  her  head  where  he  stood  uncovered 
behind  her.  His  left  wrist  was  bound  tightly 
with  a  black  band,  and  he  carried  his  arm  thrust 
between  the  buttons  of  his  jacket. 

"I  am  disabled  for  riding,  you  see,"  he  said, 
smiling.  "My  wrist  has  gone  lame  on  me.  You 
see  I  am  stopping  at  Tenbridge,  and  I  walked 
over  the  hill." 

The  ease  and  naturalness  of  his  opening  dis- 
armed1 her.  She  caught  herself  smiling  back  at 
him. 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  ill 

"I'm  so  sorry  about  your  wrist,"  she  said. 
"Does  it  pain  you  much?" 

"Only  when  I  forget  and  use  it.  Did  you 
think  I  would  come  back  again?"  This  with 
blunt  directness. 

She  made  him  no  answer. 

"Do  you  know,  I  have  been  here  every  day 
since  I  saw  you.  I've  spent  the  hours  haunting 
the  road  through  the  woods  and  tramping  these 
paths  between  the  fields." 

"I  have  not  been  out  of  the  house  since  then," 
she  answered. 

"Why  not?" 

"Can't  you  guess  why?" 

"Were  you  afraid  you  might  see  me?" 

"I— I  didn't  know." 

"Look  here,  dear,"  he  said,  "you  know  I  don't 
want  to  persecute  you.  If  you  will  only  tell  me 
truly  that  you  don't  love  me,  I  will  go  away  at 
once  and  never  see  you  again.  But  I  believe  that 
there  is  no  other  thing  in  life  worth  setting 
against  love.  It  means  my  happiness  and  yours, 


H2  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

and  it  would  be  cowardly  for  me  to  give  you  up 
for  anything  but  your  happiness.  Can't  we  rea- 
son a  little  about  it?" 

She  shook  her  head  hopelessly.  "It  wouldn't 
help.  I  have  reasoned  arid  reasoned,  and  it  only 
makes  me  wretched." 

His  brows  knit  perplexedly.  He  stopped  and 
faced  her  in  the  path.  "Do  you  think  that  I  have 
come  to  you  for  any  other  reason  than  that  I 
want  you,  that  you  mean  more  to  me  now  than 
you  ever  did?  That  I  love  you  more — more — 
since  I  know  you  love  me  wholly?  You  have 
loved  me,  absolutely.  Now  you  are  refusing  to 
marry  me!  Why?  Why?  Why?" 

Margaret's  flush  had  deepened.  While  he  had 
been  speaking,  she  had  several  times  flung  out 
her  hand  in  mute  protest.  "Oh !"  she  said,  "how 
can  I  make  you  understand?  Love  is  strange 
and  terrible.  It  isn't  enough  to  Ipve  with  the 
earth-side  of  us !  Why" — her  voice  vibrated 
with  a  little  tremor — "I  would  love  you  just  the 
same  if  I  knew  you  had  no  soul — if  there  was 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  113 

only  the  human  feel  of  you,  and  if  I  knew  you 
must  die  like  a  dumb  beast  and  not  go  to  my 
heaven.  If  I  knew  that  I  should  never  see  you 
again  after  this  life,  I  would  love  you  and  long 
for  you,  just  the  same,  now  and  afterward !  Oh, 
there  must  be  something  wrong  with  my  soul! 
That  kind  of  a  love  is  wrong.  It's  the  love  of  the 
flesh !  Don't  you  see  ?  Can't  you  see  it's  wrong  ?" 

Daunt  struck  savagely  at  the  wiry  beard- 
grasses  with  the  stick  he  carried.  This  doubt 
was  so  irrational,  so  unwholesome  to  his  healthy 
mind  that  to  argue  it  filled  him  with  a  dumb 
anger.  He  groaned  inwardly.  She  was  im- 
possible ! 

"You  give  no  credit,"  he  slowly  said  at  last, 
"to  your  humanity.  In  a  woman  of  your  soul- 
sensitiveness,  it  is  unthinkable  that  the  one 
should  exist  without  the  other.  Soul  and  sense 
react  upon  each  other.  Bodily  love,  in  people 
who  possess  spirituality,  who  are  not  mere  clods, 
dependent  upon  their  eyes  and  appetites  for  all 
life  gives  them,  presupposes  spiritual  affinity. 


H4  -A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

The  physical  may  be  the  lesser  side  of  us,  but  it 
is  not  necessarily  the  lower.  Whatever  there  is 
in  Nature  is  there  because  it  ought  to  be.  If  we 
cannot  see  its  beauty  or  its  meaning,  let  us  not 
blame  Nature ;  let  us  blame  ourselves." 

"Don't  think,"  said  Margaret,  "that  I  haven't 
thought  all  that !  It  is  so  easy  to  reason  around 
to  what  we  "want  to  believe.  It  doesn't  make  me 
happy  to  think  as  I  do,  but  I  can't  help  it !  We 
can't  make  ourselves  feel.  I  can't !  What  good 
would  it  do  me  to  make  myself  think  I  believed 
that?  You  would  soon  see  what  I  lacked,  and  I 
would  know  it,  and  we  would  be  chained  to  each 
other  while  our  souls  shrivelled.  Oh,"  she 
ended  with  almost  a  sob,  "I  am  so  utterly 
miserable !" 

Daunt  felt  a  mad  desire  to  take  that  near-by 
form  in  his  arms,  to  soothe  her  and  comfort  her. 
He  .felt  as  if  she  were  squeezing  his  heart  small 
with  her  hands.  He  was  silent.  Then  his  re- 
sentful will  rose  in  an  ungovernable  flood. 

"Do  you  suppose  I  intend  to  break  my  life  in 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  115 

two  for  a  quibble — for  a  baseless  fancy?  I  tell 
you,  you're  wrong!  You're  wrong!  You've 
tangled  yourself  up  in  a  lot  of  sophistry !  Don't 
think  I  am  going  to  give  up.  I  won't!  You 
shall  come  to  yourself !  You  shall !  You  shall!" 

Margaret  felt  the  leap  of  his  will  as  an  un- 
broken pacer  the  unexpected  flick  of  a  whip- 
thong.  It  was  a  new  sensation.  It  had  a  tang 
of  mastery,  of  domination,  that  was  strange  to 
her.  She  was  unprepared  for  such  a  situation. 
She  looked  at  him  half  stealthily.  In  the  lines  of 
his  mouth  there  was  an  unfamiliar  sovereignty. 
She  felt  that  deliciousness  of  revolt  which  every 
strong  woman  feels  at  the  first  contact  with  an 
overbearing  masculinity.  A  swift  suggestion  of 
the  potentiality  of  his  unyielding  purpose  stabbed 
her. 

"And  the  rain  descended  and  the  floods  came 
and  the  winds  blew  and  beat  upon  that  house; 
and  it  fell:  and  great  was  the  fall  of  it."  A 
flitting  memory  brought  the  parable  to  her  mind. 
Could  it  be  that  the  house  of  her  defence  was 


1 1 6  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

built  upon  the  sands  ?  "And  the  rain  descended 
and  the  floods  came  and  the  winds  blew" — the 
first  promise  of  the  tempest  was  in  his  eyes.  A 
fear  of  yielding  insinuated  itself  darkly.  The 
set  intentness  of  his  obstinacy  lingered  after  his 
words,  hung  about  her  in  the  air  and  pressed 
upon  her  with  the  weight  of  an  unescapable 
necessity.  Her  breath  strained  her. 

All  at  once  she  turned,  speaking  rapidly,  inco- 
herently. "Don't — don't  talk  to  me  like  that! 
Don't  argue  with  me!  I  can't  bear  it — now! 
I'm  all  at  sea;  I'm  a  ship  without  a  captain. 
Don't  bend  me ;  I  was  never  made  to  be  bent.  I 
have  got  to  think  for  myself.  You  must  go  away 
— indeed,  you  must!  Somehow,  to  talk  about  it 
makes  it  so  much  worse.  I  can't  discuss  it! 
Don't  ask  me  any  more !  Oh,  I  know  you  think 
I'm  unreasonable.  It  sounds  unreasonable  some- 
times, even  to  myself.  I  wish  you  wouldn't 
blame  me,  but  I  know  you  must.  You  can't  help 
it.  I  blame  myself,  and  I  hurt  myself,  and  the 
blame  and  the  want  and  the  hurt  are  all  mixed  up 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  117 

together !  If  you  care — if  you  care  anything  for 
me,  you  will  go  away!  You  won't  come  again. 
I  hurt  you  when  you  do,  and  I  can't  bear  to  do  it." 

Daunt  nodded,  took  her  hand,  held  it  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  released  it.  "Very  well,"  he  said 
quietly  and  sadly.  He  did  not  offer  to  kiss  her. 
The  fire  had  died  out  of  his  voice  and  there  was 
left 'only  a  constrained  sorrow.  But  it  had  no 
note  of  despair.  Its  resignation  was  just  as  wilful 
as  had  been  its  assertive  passion.  He  looked  at 
her  a  moment  lingeringly,  then  turned  and  vault- 
ing the  hedge,  with  squared  shoulders  and  swing- 
ing stride,  struck  off  across  the  stubble  of  the 
fields. 

Margaret  did  not  look  back,  but  she  knew  he 
had  not  turned  his  head.  Then  a  long  sigh  es- 
caped her. 


XL 

Her  blood  coursed  drummingly  as  she  went 
back  along  the  road,  half  running,  her  hat  fallen, 
held  by  the  loose  ribbon  under  her  chin,  her  hands 
opening  and  closing  nervously.  Her  head  was 
high  and  her  mood  struck  through  her  like  the 
smell  of  turned  earth  to  a  wild  thing  of  the  jungle. 
She  wanted  action,  hard  movement,  and  she  ran 
with  fingers  spread  to  feel  the  breeze.  Her 
thoughts  were  a  tumult — her  feelings  one  mass- 
ing, striving  storm  of  voices,  through  which  ran 
constant,  vibrating,  a  single,  insistent,  dominant 
chord. 

"You  shall!  You  SHALL!"  she  repeated  under 
her  breath.  "Why  do  I  like  that?  It's  sweeter 
than  bells!  I  can  hear  him  say  it  yet.  It  was 
like  a  hand,  pulling  me !" 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  119 

She  stopped  stock-still,  suddenly,  gazing  at  the 
fallen  purple-and-crimson  autumn  leaves,  a 
poured-out  glory  of  color  at  her  feet.  "Splen- 
did!" she  said.  She  bent  and  swept  up  a  great 
armful  and  tossed  the  clean,  wispy,  crackling 
things  in  the  air.  They  fell  in  a  whirling  shower 
over  her  face,  catching  in  her  hair.  In  the  midst 
of  them  she  laughed  aloud,  every  chord  of  her 
body  sounding.  Then,  with  a  quick  revulsion, 
she  threw  out  her  arms  and  sank  panting  on  the 
selvage  of  the  field. 

"What  can  I  do?  What  can  I  do?"  she  said. 
"I'm  afraid!  I  can't  go  on  fighting  this  way! 
It — drags  me  so."  Her  fingers  were  pulling  up 
the  tapery  grass-spears  in  a  sinister  terror.  "I 
felt  so  strong  the  last  few  weeks,  and  it's  gone — 
utterly  gone !  Why — it  went  when  I  first  looked 
at  his  face.  If  he  had  kissed  me  again,  this 
time ;  if — if  he  had  held  me  as  he  did  that  other 
day — in  the  woods — oh,  my  heart's  water! 
There's  something  in  me  that  won't  fight.  The 
ground  goes  from  under  my  feet.  It's  dreadful 


1 20  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

to  feel  this  way !  His  hair  smelled  like — roses  ! 
If  I  had  dared  kiss  it !  I  ought  to  be  sorry  and 
I'm — not !  I'm  ashamed  to  be  glad,  and  I'm  glad 
to  be  ashamed!" 

She  felt  herself  shivering,  resentful  of  the  ec- 
stasy of  sweetness  that  lapped  and  folded  her. 
The  dull  glow  of  the  sky  irritated  her  with  its 
very  serenity. 

"If  I  only  hadn't  seen  him!  If  I  had  been 
strong  enough  not  to!  It's  ungenerous  of  him. 
He  ought  to  leave.  He  ought  to  have  gone  away 
after  that  last  time!  He  ought!" 

But  if  he  had!  The  thought  obtruded  itself. 
She  had  longed  for  him  to  come ;  she  knew,  down 
in  her  soul,  she  had.  Her  heart  had  given  her 
lips  the  lie.  The  woman  in  her  had  betrayed  her 
conscience. 

"It's  the  truth!"  she  cried,  lifting  her  hand. 
"It's  the  truth !  Oh,  if  he  hadn't  come — if— he— 
hadn't!"  She  muttered  it  to  the  wind  by  the 
loneliness  of  the  slashed  hedges.  "That  would 
have  been  the  one  last  terrible  thing.  It  would 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  121 

have  crushed  me!  I  could  never  have  been  glad 
again.  I'm  sick  now  with  desolation  at  the 
thought  of  it!  It's  easier  not  to  be  able  to  for- 
give myself  than  it  would  be  not  to  be  able  to  for- 
give him!  But  he  did  come!  He  wants  me!" 
Her  voice  had  a  quiver  of  exultation.  "Nothing 
on  earth  ever  can  rob  me  of  that ! — nothing !" 

She  pressed  her  arm  against  her  eyes  till  her 
sight  blent  in  golden-lettered  flashes.  The  one 
presence  was  all  about  her ;  she  could  even  feel  his 
breath  against  her  hair.  His  eyes  had  been  the 
color  of  deep  purple  grapes  under  morning  dew. 
The  old  hunger  for  him,  for  his  hand,  his  voice, 
swept  down  upon  her,  and  she  crouched  closer  to 
the  ground  wet  with  fog-dew,  striking  the  sod 
hard  with  her  hands.  He  had  come.  He  was 
there.  He  never  would  go— she  knew  that.  If 
he  stayed,  she  must  yield.  She  had  been  peril- 
ously close  to  it  that  day. 

After  a  time  she  became  quieter  and  drew  from 
her  skirt  pocket  a  crumpled  letter,  received  that 


122  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

morning  after  three  re-forwardings.  It  was  in  a 
decisive  feminine  hand,  and  spreading  it  before 
her,  Margaret  turned  several  pages  and  began  to 
read: 

"Your  letter  has  somehow  distressed  me,"  it 
read.  "It  seemed  unlike  your  old  self.  It  seemed 
sad.  I  imagine  that  you  are  troubled  about  some- 
thing. Is  it  only  that  you  are  tired  and  dissatis- 
fied? I  have  wondered  much  about  you  since 
you  left  the  city  in  the  spring.  What  have  you 
been  doing?  How  have  you  spent  the  time  in  the 
stale  places  of  idleness?  I  have  been  so  busy 
here  at  the  hospital  that  I  have  seen  none  of  our 
old  friends.  Time  goes  so  quickly  when  you  like 
your  work !  And  I  enjoy  mine.  It  has  come  to 
mean  a  great  deal  to  me.  Dr.  Goodno  intends 
soon,  he  says,  to  put  me  in  charge  of  the  children's 
ward.  Poor  little  things !  They  suffer  so  much 
more  uncomplainingly  than  grown  folks.  Dr. 
Goodno  is  our  superintendent  and  Mrs.  Goodno 
is  superintendent  of  nurses.  She  has  been  so  dear 
and  kind  to  me,  one  could  not  help  loving  her.  It 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  123 

hardly  seems  possible  that  I  have  been  here  three 
whole  years. 

"Margaret,  have  you  ever  thought  seriously  of 
the  last  letter  I  wrote  you  ?  There  is  a  great  deal 
of  compensation  in  this  life,  and  I  have  thought 
sometimes  (I  know  you'll  forgive  me  for  saying 
it)  that  you  needed  some  experience  like  this. 
Every  woman  ought  to  be  the  better  for  it.  You 
are  my  dearest  friend,  and  if  I  could  only  show 
you  something — some  new  satisfaction  in  living — 
something  to  take  you  out  of  yourself  more,  I 
would  be  so  glad. 

"I  have  told  Mrs.  Goodno  so  much  about  you, 
and  she  would  welcome  you  here,  I  know.  It 
might  be  just  what  you  need.  You  know  the 
nurses  are  taken  on  three  months'  probation,  and 
there  is  no  compulsion  to  stay.  If  you  did  not 
like  it,  you  could  leave  at  any  time,  and  you  would 
be  the  gainer  by  the  experience.  You  need  no 
preparation.  Just  telegraph  me  at  any  time  and 
come." 

A  resolution  had  formed  itself  rapidly  in  Mar- 


124  -A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

garet's  mind.  Thrusting  the  letter  deep  into  her 
pocket,  she  walked  swiftly  up  the  path  to  the 
house.  She  sent  Creed  with  a  telegram  before 
she  entered  the  library.  Melwin  was  standing 
with  his  back  to  her,  staring  out  through  the 
leaded  diamonds  of  the  window.  He  turned 
slowly,  gazing  over  her  shoulder.  His  face  had 
lapsed  into  its  habitual  neutral  passiveness.  His 
pupils  had  contracted  into  their  peculiar  unre- 
fracting  dulness,  and  his  hands  hung  without 
motion. 

"Melwin,"  she  said,  "I'm  going  back  to  the 
city.  I  have  received  a  letter  which  makes  it 
necessary.  I  think  I  will  take  the  evening  train." 

He  turned  again  to  the  window.  "Must  you — 
go?"  His  voice  was  toneless  and  dull. 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  "I  will  look  in  and  say 
good-by  to  Lydia."  She  waited  a  moment  un- 
certainly, but  he  did  not  speak,  and  she  left  him 
standing  there. 

Turning  the  knob  of  Lydia's  door  softly,  she 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  125 

pushed  it  open  and  entered.  Lydia  lay  with  her 
face  turned  toward  the  wall;  her  regular  breathing 
showed  that  she  slept.  Margaret  could  not  bear 
to  awaken  her.  A  wavering  smile  was  on  her 
parted  lips  and  gave  a  fragile  loveliness  to  the 
delicate  transparency  of  her  skin.  Perhaps  a 
happy  dream  had  come  for  awhile  to  beckon  her 
from  ever-present  pain.  Perhaps  she  was  dream- 
ing that  she  was  well  and  knew  and  filled  a  strong 
man's  yearning. 

Margaret  closed  the  door  noiselessly.  Going 
to  her  room,  she  pencilled  a  little  note,  and  tip- 
toeing cautiously  back  through  the  hall,  slipped 
the  missive  under  Lydia's  door. 

And  this  was  her  farewell. 


XII. 

Across  the  country  Daunt  strode,  paying  little 
heed  to  his  direction.  He  skirted  one  field, 
crossed  another,  swung  through  a  gully,  scram- 
bled along  a  gravel-pit,  climbed  a  hilly  slope,  and 
cut  across  in  a  wide  circuit.  He  thought  that 
physical  weariness  might  bring  mental  relief. 
He  paused  for  a  moment  by  the  edge  of  a  clayey 
bank,  in  which  a  multitude  of  tiny  sand-swal- 
lows— winged  cliff-dwellers — had  pecked  them 
vaulted  homes.  He  thrust  his  stick  gently  into 
one  of  the  openings  and  smiled  to  see  the  bridling 
anger  of  its  feathered  inhabitant. 

Seating  himself  upon  a  pile  of  split  rails  in  a 
fence  corner,  he  dropped  into  reverie.  He  was 
conscious  of  an  immense  depression.  The  past 
few  weeks  had  brought  him  nearer  to  realizing 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  127 

how  much  Margaret  meant,  not  only  to  himself, 
but  to  his  labor  in  the  world,  than  he  had  ever 
been  before.  His  artistic  temperament  had 
pointed  him  a  dreamer,  but  his  natural  earnest- 
ness had  made  him  a  laborious  one.  His  ideals 
were  fresh  and  strong,  and  the  world  of  tangled 
interests  and  woven  ambitions  had  stood  before 
him  always,  mute,  importunate,  a  place  to  make 
them  real.  In  man's  ear  there  sound  ever  three 
voices:  the  brazen-throated  throng,  the  silver- 
throated  few  and  the  golden-throated  one.  This 
last  voice  Daunt  had  learned  to  listen  to.  He 
had  made  Margaret  his  unconscious  motive.  The 
best  of  his  written  work  had  been  done  at  the 
huge  antique  mahogany  desk  under  her  picture. 
What  she  had  been  to  his  work,  what  she  was 
then,  showed  him  what  her  presence  or  absence 
in  his  life  must  inevitably  mean.  He  realized  the 
truth  of  what  he  had  once  scoffed  at,  that  behind 
every  man's  success  lies  the  heart  of  a  woman. 

He  felt  a  profound  disheartenment.     His  mind 
skimmed  the  waste  of  his  younger  years.     It  saw 


128  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

his  toils  as  little  things  and  the  work  he  had 
praised  in  himself  as  that  of  a  trifler.  He  knew 
now  his  capacities  for  ambition.  He  saw  inspira- 
tion for  the  first  time  as,  on  a  twilit  highway,  one 
sees  a  fancied  bush,  with  a  sudden  movement,  re- 
solve itself  into  a  human  figure.  He  saw  his 
past,  harvestless.  Fate  had  taken  his  youth,  like 
a  handful  of  sand,  and  fed  it  to  the  sea !  Since 
Margaret  had  gone,  his  work  had  been  purpose- 
less, barren — it  wanted  her  presence. 

He  had  lighted  his  pipe  mechanically,  and 
through  the  blue-pale  smoke  whorls,  a  near  bush 
took  on  the  outline  of  her  clear  profile,  reclined 
against  a  dusky  cushion.  His  longing  filled  the 
silence  with  an  inward  voice : 

"You  are  the  woman,"  it  said,  "that  I  have 
always  wanted !  I  want  you  all !  I  want  your 
childish  shallows  and  your  womanly  deeps!  I 
want  your  weakness  and  your  strength!  I 
want  you  just  as  you  are,  no  different — you,  your- 
self." 

She  was  sitting  before  him  now  in  the  firelight 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  129 

of  her  room,  where  the  tongues  of  the  burning 
drift-wood  and  salt-dusted  larch  sprang  up,  blue, 
magenta  and  purplish-green,  prickling  the  brass- 
work  of  the  fireplace  into  a  thousand  many-col- 
ored points,  and  he  was  leaning  forward,  speak- 
ing, with  his  bare  heart  behind  set  lips :  "I  love 
you.  All  that  I  have  for  you  that  you  will  not 
own !  All  that  you  might  be  to  me  that  you  will 
not  give !" 

He  felt  her  present  trouble  vaguely  and  with 
the  same  impotent  resentment  that  he  had  felt 
in  that  far-off  yet  ridiculously  near  child-life, 
when  in  all  the  lofty  manhood  of  his  eight  years 
he  had  defied  the  cliff-winds — that  childhood 
which  lived  in  his  memory  as  a  stretch  of  sun- 
drowned  sea-beach  swept  by  wind;  a  dim  back- 
ground in  a  frame  of  sharp  outline,  which  held 
little  images  of  delicate  fragrance,  clear  and 
sweet,  on  the  retina  of  his  memory.  This  woman 
met  him  in  a  pain,  measured  by  his  added  years, 
that  he  was  powerless  to  appease. 

Knocking  the  cold  ashes  from  his  pipe,  Daunt 


130  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

rose  and  stretched  his  arms  wide  along  the  top- 
most rail  of  the  shambling  fence  and  gazed  out 
across  the  evening  hills,  blurred  by  the  blue  of 
distance,  into  the  red  sunset.  Far  to  the  left, 
glooming  from  encircling  elms,  lay  the  house  that 
sheltered  Margaret.  Down  below  him,  in  the 
railroad  cut,  crawled  a  deliberate  tank-train. 
From  where  he  stood,  he  could  see  the  ungainly 
arm  of  the  slung  pipe,  through  which  the  thirsty 
engine  drank  deep  draughts.  Sitting  in  the  chill 
air  had  told  him  his  fatigue,  and  his  wrist  had 
grown  stiff  and  painful.  He  felt  unequal  to  the 
long  walk  across  to  Tenbridge,  and,  consulting 
his  watch,  reflected  that  the  city-bound  train,  al- 
most due,  would  carry  him  to  the  little  Guthrie 
junction,  shortening  his  walk  by  half. 

He  pushed  rapidly  down  the  hill  road,  grateful 
for  the  heat  of  renewed  motion.  The  station  was 
deserted.  One  shabby  hack  drowsed  driverless 
under  the  shed,  and  even  the  ticket  agent  had  ap- 
parently forsaken  his  grating. 

Sauntering  across  the  platform,  Daunt  leaned 


A  Furnace  of  EarlJi.  131 

against  the  signal-post,  on  whose  swinging  arm 
a  round,  fevered  eye  watched,  unwinkingly  and 
angry,  for  the  distant  train,  fast  growing  from  a 
bright  pin  point  to  a  blazing  blotch  of  yellow,  be- 
tween the  spun-out  rails.  Its  attenuated  rum- 
bling had  swelled  to  a  trembling  roar.  His  pre- 
occupation was  so  deep  that  the  clamorous  iron 
thing  was  upon  him  almost  before  he  heard  it. 
The  surprise  jarred  him  into  sudden  movement, 
and  it  was  then  that  his  tired  limbs  lurched  under 
him;  the  sucking  vortex  of  the  hurtling  mass 
threw  him  off  his  balance,  he  wavered,  stumbled, 
fell — and  the  pitiless  armored  monster,  plunging, 
gigantic,  regardless,  caught  him  on  its  mailed 
side  and  passed  on,  to  shudder,  to  slow,  to  stop — 
too  late ! 


XIII. 

The  gas  lamps  had  been  early  lit  and  threw 
flaring  streaks  of  white  across  the  dingy  plat- 
form as  Margaret  reached  the  station.  She  had 
stood  on  the  top  of  the  little  slope,  looking  back 
across  the  fields,  grown  dim  and  mysterious  in 
the  purpling  dusk,  with  a  tightening  of  the 
throat.  However  unhappy  she  had  been  here, 
yet  she  had  seen  Daunt.  He  had  stood  with  her 
by  those  dwarfed  hedges,  he  had  pleaded  with  her 
under  the  flaming  boughs  of  those  woods.  She 
could  still  feel  the  strong  pressure  of  his  lips  upon 
her  hand  as  he  besought  her  for  what  she  could 
have  given  him  so  eagerly,  so  gladly,  so  joyously 
if  she  had  dared.  She  was  leaving  him  there,  and 
the  parting  now  seemed  so  much  more  than  that 
other  seaside  flight,  when  she  had  been  stung  to 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  133 

action  by  her  own  self-reproach.  Making  her 
mute  farewell,  she  heard  a  shriek  of  steam,  as  the 
train  came  shuddering  into  the  station,  drawing 
long,  labored  breaths  like  some  chained  serpent 
monster,  overtired,  and  she  hastened  stumbling- 
ly,  uncertainly  over  the  stony  road.  When  she 
reached  the  platform,  she  was  out  of  breath  and 
panting,  and  did  not  notice  the  knot  of  train- 
men, with  beckoning  arms  and  dangling  lanterns, 
by  the  side  of  the  track. 

She  sank  into  her  Pullman  seat  wearily.  Sev- 
eral windows  were  open  and  inquiring  heads  were 
thrust  forth.  She  was  conscious  of  a  subdued 
excitement  in  the  air.  A  conductor  passed  hur- 
riedly through  the  coach  and  swung  himself 
deftly  off  the  end.  People  about  her  asked  each 
other  impatiently  why  the  train  did  not  start,  and 
a  sallow-faced  woman  with  a  false  front  hoped 
nervously  and  audibly  that  nothing  was  the  mat- 
ter. A  sudden  whisper  spread  itself  from  chair 
to  chair,  and  a  man  came  back  from  the  smoking 


1 34  -A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

compartment  to  seat  himself  beside  his  wife,  and 
pulled  down  the  window-shade  with  low  whisper- 
ings. 

"An  accident.     A  man  hurt." 

Margaret  heard  it  with  a  tremor.  She  tried  to 
raise  her  window,  but  the  latch  caught,  and  she 
placed  her  face  close  to  the  pane  to  peer  out.  Up 
the  platform  tramped  four  trainmen,  bloused  and 
grimy  with  coal-dust,  carrying  between  them  a 
board,  covered  with  tarpaulin,  under  which 
showed  clearly  the  outlines  of  a  human  figure. 

Margaret  caught  her  breath  and  drew  back 
with  a  sudden  feeling  of  faintness.  There  were 
a  few  tense  moments  of  waiting.  Then  a  quiver 
ran  through  the  heavy  trucks,  there  was  a  sharp 
whistle,  a  snort  of  escaping  steam,  and  past  her 
window  moved  slowly  back  the  station  lamps.  A 
porter  went  toward  the  baggage-car,  his  arms 
piled  high  with  white  towels,  which  threw  his 
ebony  face  into  sharp  contrast.  The  forward 
conductor  leaned  over  the  occupant  of  the  chair 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  135 

across  from  Margaret  to  borrow  his  flask,  and 
went  out  with  it.  She  realized  from  this  that  the 
injured  one  was  on  the  train. 

He  was  probably  at  that  moment  lying  on  the 
floor  of  the  baggage-car,  amid  a  litter  of  trunks 
and  bags.  Men  were  bending  over  him  to  see  if 
he  lived  or  died.  Five  minutes  ago  he  had  been 
as  full  of  life  and  strength  and  breath  as  she. 
Now  he  lay  stricken  and  maimed  and  ghastly,  a 
huddle  of  bleeding  flesh  and  torn  sinew,  perhaps 
never  again  to  see  the  smile  of  the  sunlight,  or, 
perhaps,  to  live  mutilated  and  broken  and  dis- 
figured, his  every  breath  a  pain,  his  every  pulse  a 
pang.  Perhaps  he  had  loved  ones — a  one  loved 
one,  who  had  hung  about  his  neck  and  kissed  him 
when  he  went  away.  What  of  that  love  when 
they  should  bring  this  object  back  to  her? 

A  hideous  question  of  the  lastingness  of  human 
love  flung  itself  from  the  darkness  without  in 
upon  her  brain.  One  could  love  when  the  face 
was  fair,  when  the  form  was  supple  and  straight, 
when  the  eyes  were  clear  and  the  blood  was  young 


136  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

with  the  flush  of  life !  One  could  still  love  when 
age  had  grayed  the  hair  and  the  kindly  years  had 
bowed  the  back.  Mutual  love  need  not  dim  with 
time,  but  only  mellow  into  the  peaceful  content 
of  fruition. 

But  let  that  straight  form  be  struck  down  in  its 
prime:  a  misstep,  a  slip  in  the  crowded  street,  a 
broken  rail,  an  explosion  in  a  chemist's  shop, 
and  in  an  instant  the  beauty  is  scarred,  the  sym- 
metrical limb  is  twisted,  the  tender  face  is  seamed 
and  gnarled.  The  loved  form  has  gone,  and  in  its 
place  is  left  a  shape  of  pain,  of  repulsion,  of 
undelight.  Ah !  what  of  that  love  then  ? 

Margaret  shivered  as  if  with  cold.  How  could 
she  answer  that?  There  was  a  love  that  did  not 
live  and  die  in  the  beating  of  the  heart,  which 
did  not  fade  into  darkness  when  its  outer  shell 
perished.  That  was  the  spirit  love.  That  was 
the  love  of  the  mother  for  the  child,  of  the  soul 
for  the  kindred  soul.  That  was  the  love  that  en- 
dured. It  was  the  only  love  which  justified  itself. 
It  was  this  that  God  intended  when  He  put  man 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  137 

and  woman  in  the  earth  to  cherish  one  another 
and  gave  them  living  souls  which  spoke  a  com- 
mon language.  Better  a  million  times  crush 
from  the  heart  any  lesser  habitant!  Better  an 
empty  soul,  swept  and  garnished,  than  a  chamber 
of  banqueting  for  a  fleshly  guest ! 

Woman's  heart  is  the  Great  Questioner.  When 
Doubt  waves  it  from  natural  interrogation  of  the 
world  about  it,  it  turns  with  fearful  and  inevitable 
questionings  upon  itself,  until  the  sky  which  had 
been  thronged  with  quiring  seraphim  flocks 
thick  with  sneering  devils.  "Do  you  think,"  in- 
sinuates the  Tempter  mockingly,  "that  this  beau- 
tiful dove-eyed  love  of  yours  can  stand  the  ulti- 
mate test?  Have  you  tried  it?  You  have  seen  loves 
just  as  beautiful,  just  as  young,  go  down  into  the 
pit.  Do  you  dream  that  yours  can  endure  ?  Strip 
from  your  love  the  subtle  magnetism  of  the  body, 
take  from  it  the  hand-touch,  the  lip-caress,  the 
pride  of  the  eye,  and  what  have  you  left?  The 
hand  grows  palsied,  the  lips  shrivel,  the  eye  lead- 


138  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

ens,    and    love's    body    dies.     What  then?    Ah, 
what  then ! 


The  darkness  had  fallen  more  thickly  without, 
and  Margaret  saw  her  face  reflected  from  the 
window-pane,  as  in  a  tarnished  and  trembling 
mirror.  Her  own  eyes  gazed  back  at  her.  She 
put  up  her  hands  and  rubbed  them  against  the 
glass,  as  though  to  erase  the  image  she  saw. 

"Don't  look  so,"  she  said,  half  aloud.  "What 
right  have  you  to  look  so  good  ?  Don't  you  know 
that  if  you  had  staid,  if  you  had  seen  him  again, 
you  would  have  thought  as  he  did  ?  You  couldn't 
have  helped  it !  You  couldn't !  You  had  to  run 
away!  You  didn't  want  to  come!  You  wish 
you  were  back  again  now !  You — you  do !  You 
want  him.  You  want  him  just  as  you  did — then ! 
That's  the  worst  of  it." 

The  face  in  the  glass  made  her  no  answer.  It 
angered  her  that  those  eyes  would  offer  no  glance 
of  self-defence,  and,  with  a  quick  impulse,  she 
reached  up  and  drew  down  the  shade. 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  1 39 

The  whir  and  click  of  the  flying  wheels  jarred 
through  her  brain.  She  had  a  sense  of  estrange- 
ment from  herself.  She  felt  almost  as  though 
she  were  two  persons.  The  one  Margaret  riding 
in  her  pillowed  chair,  with  her  mind  a  turmoil  of 
evil  doubts,  and  the  other  Margaret  rushing  on 
by  her  side  through  the  outer  night,  calm-eyed 
and  untroubled,  and  these  two  almost  touching 
and  yet  separated  by  an  infinite  distance.  They 
could  never  clasp  each  other  again.  She  had  a 
vague  feeling  that  there  was  a  deeper  purpose  of 
punishment  in  this.  She  herself  had  raised  the 
ghost  which  must  haunt  her. 

She  hardly  noted  the  various  stations  as  the 
train  stopped  and  breathed  a  moment,  and  then 
dashed  on.  Try  as  she  would,  her  thoughts  re- 
curred to  the  baggage-car  and  the  burden  it  car- 
ried. She  wondered  whether  they  would  put  it 
off  quickly  at  the  terminal,  and  what  it  would  look 
like.  It  was  for  such  things  that  hospitals  were 
built,  and  to  a  hospital  with  all  that  it  implied,  she 
was  bound.  New  and  torturing  doubts  of  her 


140  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

own  strength  beset  her.  She  was  afraid.  In  her 
imagination  she  already  smelled  the  sickening 
sweet  halitus  of  iodoform  and  saw  white-aproned 
nurses  winding  endless  bandages  upon  bleeding 
gashes  that  would  not  be  stanched. 

An  engulfing  rumbling  told  her  that  they  were 
entering  the  city  tunnel,  and  nearby  passengers 
began  a  deliberate  assortment  of  wraps  and  par- 
cels. The  porter  passed  through  the  train,  loudly 
announcing  the  last  stop.  There  was  almost  a 
relief  to  Margaret's  overwrought  sensibilities  in 
his  sophisticated  utterance.  It  was  a  part  of  the 
great  cube-jumbled,  fish-ribbed  metropolis,  with 
its  clanging  noises  and  its  swirl  of  canoned  living 
for  which  during  the  past  weeks  she  had  thirsted 
feverishly.  She  felt,  without  putting  it  into  ac- 
tual mental  expression,  that  surcharged  thought 
might  find  relief  in  simple  things. 

Lois  would  be  waiting  there  to  meet  her.  She 
would  be  glad  to  see  her.  It  was  pleasant  to  be 
loved  and  looked  for.  A  moment  or  two  more 
and  the  white,  smoky  haze  that  blotted  the  car 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  141 

windows  lifted,  and  in  place  of  the  milky  opaque 
squares  appeared  glimpses  of  wide-lit  spaces  and 
springing  ironwork.  The  car  hesitated,  shocked 
itself  with  a  succession  of  gentle  jars,  and  came 
heavily  to  a  halt.  They  were  in  the  station. 

Margaret  alighted  on  the  platform  with  limbs 
numb  and  tired.  The  strain  of  the  day  had  given 
her  a  yearning  for  quiet,  for  the  abandon  of  a 
deep  chair  with  soft  cushions,  and  a  cup  of  tea. 
She  met  Lois  with  outstretched  arms  and  a  wan 
and  uncertain  smile  against  which  her  lips  feebly 
protested. 

"Why,  Margaret,  dear,  how  tired  you  look!" 
said  Lois,  kissing  her.  "Come,  and  we'll  get  a 
cab  just  outside.  Your  train  was  very  late.  I 
thought  you  never  would  get  here  at  all !" 

Margaret  clung  to  Lois's  hands.  "O — h,"  she 
said,  falteringly,  "do  we  have  to  go  up  the  whole 
length  of  the  train  ?" 

"Why,  yes ;  are  you  so  very  tired  ?" 

"No— but "  she  stopped,  ashamed  of  her 

weakness.  She  was  coming  to  be  a  nurse — to 


142  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

learn  to  care  for  sick  people  and  to  dress  wounds. 
What  would  Lois  think  of  her?  "Do — do  they 
unload  the  baggage-car  now?" 

"Oh,"  said  Lois,  cheerfully,  "we'll  leave  your 
checks  here ;  it  won't  be  necessary  to  wait  for  the 
trunks.  Come,  dear!"  She  led  the  way  up 
the  thronged  platform.  "Hurry!"  she  said  sud- 
denly, "there  is  a  case  in  the  baggage-car.  I 
wonder  where  it's  going !  Oh,  you  poor  darling !" 

Margaret  had  turned  very  pale  and  leaned 
against  a  waiting  truck  for  support. 

"I  forgot.  That  is  a  rather  stiff  beginning  for 
you,  isn't  it?  I'm  so  sorry!  I  hope  you  didn't 
see ;  it  looks  like  a  bad  one.  Don't  watch  it,  dear. 
That's  right!  You  won't  mind  it  a  bit  after  a 
while.  You're  quite  worn  out  now.  Come,  we'll 
go  around  this  other  way." 

"It  happened  at  Warne,"  said  Margaret,  tremu- 
lously. "I  saw  them  take  him  on." 

"Poor  dear !  and  you  must  have  been  worrying 
about  it  all  the  way  in.  Do  you  see  the  ambu- 
lance at  the  curb?  That's  ours.  You  see,  they 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  143 

telegraphed,  and  now  he  will  be  cared  for  sooner 
than  you  get  your  tea.  There  goes  the  ambu- 
lance gong!  They're  off.  And  now  here's  the 
cab." 


XIV. 

An  hour  later,  Margaret,  somewhat  composed 
from  her  ride,  waited  in  the  homelike  bedroom 
for  Lois  to  come  and  take  her  to  Mrs.  Goodno, 
the  Superintendent  of  Nurses.  From  her  post 
at  the  window  she  could  look  down  upon  the 
street. 

It  had  begun  to  rain,  and  the  electric  lights 
hurled  misshapen  Swedish-yellow  splotches  on 
the  wet  asphalt.  The  wind  had  risen,  rending  the 
clouds  into  shaggy  lines  and  made  a  dreary,  dis- 
consolate singing  in  the  web  of  telephone  wires 
bracketed  beneath  the  window.  Margaret  felt  her- 
self to  be  in  a  state  of  unnatural  tension.  She  gazed 
out  into  the  swathing  darkness,  trying  desperately 
to  make  out  the  landscape.  Her  eyes  wandered 
from  the  clumps  of  wet  and  glistening  foliage  to 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  145 

the  starting  lights  in  a  far-off  apartment  house, 
which  thrust  its  massive  top,  fortress-like,  and, 
with  proportions  exaggerated  by  the  lowering 
scud,  up  into  the  air.  Do  what  she  would,  her 
mind  recurred,  as  though  from  some  baleful 
necessity,  to  the  details  of  the  long  train-ride. 
The  never-ending  clack  of  the  wheels  was  in  her 
ears.  She  clenched  her  hands  as  the  landscape 
resolved  itself  into  the  dim  station  at  Warne,  and 
she  saw  again  the  grimy  brakemen  carrying 
something  by  covered  with  a  dirty  canvas. 

She  shut  her  eyes  to  drag  them  away  from  the 
window.  How  could  she  ever  stand  it!  It  had 
been  a  mistake — a  horrible,  ghastly  mistake !  She 
had  turned  cold  and  sick  when  they  had  carried 
it  past  the  car  window.  How  could  she  ever  bear 
to  see  things  like  that  ?  Lois  did.  Lois  liked  it ! 
So  did  all  of  them.  But  they  were  different. 
There  must  be  something  hideously  wrong  about 
her — it  was  part  of  her  unwomanliness — part  of 
her  guilty  lack.  The  others  saw  the  quivering 
soul  beneath  the  sick  flesh;  she  could  never  see 


146  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

within  the  bodily  tenement.  She  was  handcuffed 
to  her  lower  side.  She  remembered  the  story  of 
the  criminal,  chained  by  wrist  and  ankle  to  a  com- 
rade; how  he  woke  one  day  to  find  the  other 
dead — dead — and  himself  condemned  to  drag 
about  with  him,  day  and  night,  that  horrible,  inert 
thing.  She,  Margaret  Langdon,  was  like  this 
man.  She  must  drag  through  life  this  corpse  of 
a  dead  spirituality,  this  finer  comrade  soul  of 
hers  which  had  somehow  died!  Her  life  must 
be  one  long  hypocrisy — one  unending  deceit.  She 
was  even  there  under  false  pretences.  They 
would  not  want  her  if  they  knew. 

She  turned  toward  the  fireplace.  Over  it  hung 
a  sepia  print  of  the  Madonna  of  the  Garden.  The 
glow  touched  the  rounded  chin  and  chubby  knees 
of  the  little  St.  John  with  a  soft  flesh-tint,  and 
left  in  shadow  the  quaint  incongruity  of  the 
distant  church-spire.  Margaret's  whole  spirit 
yearned  toward  its  placid  purity.  She  had  had 
the  same  print  hung  in  her  bedroom  at  home,  and 
it  had  looked  down  upon  her  when  she  prayed. 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  147 

She  gazed  at  it  now  with  eyes  of  wretchedness, 
filmed  with  tears.  Her  throat  ached  acutely  with 
a  repressed  desire  to  sob.  She  fancied  that  the 
downcast  lids  lifted  and  that  the  luminous,  wide 
eyes  followed  her  wonderingly,  reproachfully. 

Lois  came  in  smiling.  "She  is  in  now,"  she 
said,  "and  we  will  go  down." 

Margaret  exerted  herself  and  tried  to  chat 
bravely  as  they  went  along  the  corridor,  and  en- 
tered the  cool  silence  of  the  room  where  Lois's 
friend  waited  to  meet  her.  There  was  a  restful- 
ness  in  Mrs.  Goodno's  neat  attire,  and  a  dignity 
about  her  clear  profile,  full,  womanly  throat  and 
strong,  capable  wrists,  that  seemed  to  be  an  in- 
separable part  of  her  atmosphere.  Her  firm  and 
unringed  hands  held  Margaret's  with  a  sugges- 
tion of  tried  strength  and  assured  poise  that  bore 
comfort.  Her  eyes  were  deep  gray,  smiling  less 
with  humor,  one  felt,  than  with  a  constant  in- 
ward reflection  of  welcome  thoughts.  Her  hair 
was  a  dull,  toneless  black,  carried  back  under  her 


148  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

lace  cap  in  a  single  straight  sweep  that  left  the 
hollows  of  her  neck  in  deep  shadow. 

"And  you  are  Miss  Langdon?"  she  said.  "Lois 
has  told  me  so  much  about  you.  Do  sit  down. 
Tea  will  be  here  directly,  and  I  want  to  give  you 
some,  for  I  know  you  have  had  a  long,  dreary 
ride." 

She  busied  herself  renewing  the  grate  fire, 
while  Margaret  watched  her  with  straying  eyes. 

"You  know,"  she  said,  returning,  "we  people 
who  spend  our  lives  taking  care  of  broken  human 
bodies  have  to  be  strong  ourselves.  You  are 
strong;  I  see  that,  though  your  face  has  tired 
lines  in  it  now.  But  we  must  be  more  than  that 
— our  minds  must  be  healthy.  We  can't  afford  to 
be  morbid.  We  have  to  have  cheerful  hearts. 
We  must  see  the  beauty  of  the  great  pattern  that 
depends  on  these  soiled  and  tangled  threads  we 
keep  straightening  out  here." 

"Oh,"  said  Margaret,  "do  you  think  we  have  to 
be  happy  to  do  any  good  in  the  world  ?  How  can 
we  be  happy  unless  we  work?  And  if  we  start 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  149 

miserable "  she  stopped,  with  an  acute  sense 

of  wretchedness. 

"No,  not  happy  necessarily.  There  are  things 
in  some  of  our  lives  which  make  that  impossible ; 
but  we  can  be  cheerful.  Cheerfulness  depends 
not  on  our  past  acts,  but  on  our  wholesome  view 
of  life,  and  we  get  this  by  learning  to  understand 
it  and  to  understand  ourselves." 

"But,  do  you  think,"  questioned  Margaret, 
"do  you  think  we  always  do  in  the  end  ?" 

"Yes;  I  believe  we  do.  It's  unfailing.  I 
proved  it  to  myself,  for  I  began  life  by  being  a 
very  unnatural  girl,  and  a  very  unhappy  one.  I 
misunderstood  my  own  emotions,  as  all  young 
girls  do.  I  didn't  know  how  to  treat  myself.  I 
didn't  even  know  I  was  sick.  I  had  been  brought 
up  in  New  England,  and  I  tortured  myself  with 
religion.  It  wasn't  the  wickedness  of  the  world 
that  troubled  me ;  I  expected  too  much  of  myself 
— we  all  do  at  a  certain  age.  And,  because  I 
found  weakness  where  I  hadn't  suspected  it,  I 
thought  I  was  all  wrong.  You  know  we  New 


150  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

Englanders  have  a  peculiar  aptitude  for  self-tor- 
ture, and  I  wore  my  hair-cloth  shirt  and  pressed  it 
down  on  the  sores.  It  was  the  University  Settle- 
ment idea  that  first  drew  me  out  of  myself.  I 
went  into  that  and  worked  at  first  only  for  my 
own  sake ;  but,  after  a  while,  for  the  work's  sake. 
It  was  only  work  I  wanted,  my  dear,  and  contact 
with  real  things.  Out  of  the  turmoil  and  mixture 
and  pain  I  got  my  first  real  satisfaction.  In  its 
misery  and  want  and  degradation  I  learned  that 
an  isolated  grief  is  always  selfish.  I  learned  the 
part  that  our  human  bodies  play  in  life.  I  began 
to  see  a  meaning  in  the  plan  and  to  understand 
the  part  in  it  of  what  I  had  thought  the  lower 
things  in  us.  Then  I  got  into  the  hospital  work, 
and  you  will  soon  see  what  that  is.  It  has  shown 
me  humanity.  It  has  taught  me  the  nobility  of 
the  human  side  of  us.  It  makes  me  broader  to 
understand  and  quicker  to  feel ;  and  it  isn't  de- 
pressing. There  is  a  great  deal  in  it  that  is 
sunny.  I  hope  you  will  like  it.  But  we  are  not 
all  made  in  the  same  mould,  and  we  regard  your 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  151 

coming,  of  course,  merely  as  an  experiment.  So, 
if  you  feel  at  any  time  that  it  is  not  for  you,  come 
to  me  and  tell  me.  Come  to  me  any  time  and  talk 
with  me. 

"Now  you  have  finished  your  tea,  and  I  must 
go  to  the  children's  ward.  I  have  put  you  with 
Lois  till  the  strangeness  of  it  wears  off,  and  you 
can  have  a  separate  room  whenever  you  like." 

Leaning  forward,  she  brushed  Margaret's 
cheek  lightly  with  her  lips  and  went  quickly  out 
of  the  room. 

In  spite  of  her  misery,  a  shy  feeling  of  comfort 
had  come  into  Margaret's  heart.  She  rose  and 
surveyed  herself  in  the  mirror  over  the  mantel, 
drawing  a  deep  breath  and  raising  her  shoulders 
as  she  did  so.  It  was  an  unconscious  trick  of 
hers. 

"Oh,  no!"  she  said  half  aloud,  "that  is  the 
temptation.  I  want  to  think  it,  and  it  can't  be 
true.  I  want  to !  The  want  in  me  is  bad !  How 
can  it  be  true  ?"  "The  nobility  of  the  human  side 
of  us" — ah,  that  had  come  from  the  calm  poise  of 


152  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

a  wholesome  understanding!  It  was  noble — 
this  human  side— but  not  king.  What  of  this 
strange  mastery  that  overflowed  her,  the  actual 
ache  for  the  glow  of  his  eyes,  the  pressure  of  his 
fingers?  The  mere  memory  of  it  was  like  a  live 
coal  to  her  cheeks.  It  burned  her.  The  feel  of 
his  strong  hair  was  in  the  fibrous  touch  of  her 
gown.  His  mouth,  smiling  at  the  corners,  warmed 
her  shoulder.  His  bodily  presence  was  all  about 
her ;  it  breathed  upon  her,  and  her  soul  reeled  and 
shut  its  eyes  like  a  drunken  man ! 

Margaret  tossed  her  hands  above  her  head,  the 
wrists  dropping  crosswise  upon  the  shearing  pil- 
low of  her  flame-washed  hair.  In  the  mirror  she 
saw  the  pale  oval  of  her  face  in  this  living  setting. 
As  she  gazed,  the  features  warmed  and  changed ; 
the  eyes  became  Daunt's  eyes — the  mouth, 
Daunt's  mouth.  It  was  Daunt's  face,  as  she  had 
looked  up  into  it  framed  in  her  arms  on  the  sun- 
brilliant  beach.  The  wind  was  all  about  her, 
fresh  and  odorous,  and  his  kisses  were  falling 
upon  her  seasalt  lips ! 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  153 

Still  holding  her  arms  raised,  she  leaned  to  the 
mirror  and  kissed  the  glass  hungrily.  Her  breath 
sighed  the  picture  dim.  The  magic  of  it  was 
gone,  and  Margaret,  glancing  fearfully  behind 
her,  turned  and  ran  breathless  to  her  room,  where 
she  locked  the  door  and  threw  herself  upon  the 
bed,  pressing  her  face  down  into  the  soft  pillow 
gaspingly,  to  shut  out  the  vivid  passion-laden 
odor  of  bruised  roses  that  seemed  to  pursue  her, 
filling  all  her  senses  like  a  far-faint  smell  of  musk. 


XV. 

Margaret  passed  along  through  the  light-fresh- 
ened ward,  following  Lois  closely,  and  fighting 
desperately  the  active  feeling  of  nausea  which  al- 
most overcame  her.  All  her  sensitive  nature 
cringed  in  this  atmosphere.  Through  the  bright- 
ness and  cleanliness  of  wood  and  metal,  the  abso- 
lute whiteness  of  the  stamped  bed-linen  and  the 
fresh  smell  of  antiseptics,  she  had  a  morbid  sense 
of  the  ugliness  of  disease,  of  the  loathsomeness  of 
contact  with  physical  decrepitude  that  is  one  of 
the  selfishnesses  of  the  artistic  temperament.  She 
felt  the  dread,  incubus-like,  pressing  upon  her  and 
sucking  from  her  what  force  and  vitality  she  had. 
A  feeling  of  despair  of  being  able  to  cope  with 
this  thrusting  melancholy  beset  her  and  she 
fought  it  off  with  her  strongest  strength. 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  155 

At  intervals,  as  they  passed,  was  a  cot  shut  off 
by  screens  of  white  linen,  fluted  and  ironed,  as 
high  as  the  eyes.  These  spotless  blanks  stood 
out  more  awful  to  Margaret  in  intimation  of  hid- 
den horror  than  any  open  physical  convulsion. 
Behind  these  screens  was  more  often  silence,  but 
sometimes  came  forth  an  indistinct  and  restless 
muttering,  and  once  a  sharp,  panging  groan.  A 
sick  apprehension  gripped  her,  and  she  felt  her 
palms  growing  moist  with  sweat.  She  was  sickly 
sensible  of  the  sweet,  pungent  smell  of  carbolic 
and  ether,  sharpened  by  a  spicy  odor  of  balsam- 
of-Peru.  From  the  pillows  curious  eyes  peered 
at  her,  set  in  faces  sharp-featured  and  hectic,  or 
a  shambling  figure  in  loose  garments  moved,  bent 
and  halting,  across  their  path.  She  caught  a 
sidewise  view,  through  a  swing  door,  of  a  tiled 
operating-room,  with  a  glittering  melee  of  pol- 
ished instruments.  Here  and  there  she  thought 
the  lapping  folds  of  bandages  moved,  showing 
blue  glimpses  of  gaping  cuts  and  festering  tissue. 


156  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

It  seemed  as  if  the  long  rows  of  white  coverlids 
and  iron  bed-bars  would  go  on  eternally. 

As  they  came  to  the  extreme  end  of  the  room, 
Margaret  suddenly  stopped,  gripping  Lois's  arm 
with  vise-close  fingers.  "What  is  that?"  she 
whispered. 

"What  is  what?" 

She  stood  listening,  her  neck  bent  sideways, 
and  a  flush  of  excitement  rising  on  her  cheeks. 
"Didn't  you  hear  him  call  me  ?"  she  said. 

"Hear  him  ?     Hear  who  ?"  said  Lois. 

But  she  did  not  answer.  "Take  me  away ;  oh, 
take  me  away !"  she  said  weakly.  "I  want  to  go 
back  to  the  room.  I — I  can't  tell  you  what  I 
thought  I  heard.  It  would  sound  such  nonsense. 
I  must  have  imagined  it.  Oh,  of  course  I  imag- 
ined it !  Oh,  Lois,  I  don't  believe  I  will  ever  be 
any  good  here,  do  you  ?" 

Lois  drew  her  into  the  outside  corridor  and  up 
the  hall.  "I  do  believe  you  are  sick  yourself!" 
she  said.  "Why,  you  have  quite  a  fever.  There 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  157 

is  something  troubling  you,  dear,  I'm  sure.  Can't 
you  tell  me  about  it?" 

"Oh,  no!  Indeed  there  is  nothing!"  cried 
Margaret.  "Lois,  I  want  to  see  all  the  patients — 
the  worst  ones.  Promise  me  you'll  take  me  with 
you  when  you  go  around  to-night.  Indeed,  in- 
deed, I  must!  You  must  let  me!  I  will  be 
just  as  quiet!  You  will  see!  You  think  it 
wouldn't  be  best — that  I'm  too  fanciful  and  sen- 
sitive yet — but  indeed,  it  isn't  that.  Maybe  it's 
because  I  only  look  on  from  a  distance.  I  don't 
touch  it,  actually.  I'm  only  a  spectator.  If  I 
could  go  quite  close,  or  do  something  to  help 
with  my  hands,  maybe  they  would  seem  more  like 
people,  and  the  sickness  of  it  would  leave  me. 
Do,  dear,  say  I  may  to-night !" 

They  had  reached  the  room  now,  and  Lois 
gently  forced  Margaret  upon  the  lounge.  "Very 
well,"  she  said,  "I  will.  I'm  going  through  at 
nine  o'clock.  I'm  not  afraid  of  your  sensitiveness. 
It's  the  sensitive  ones  who  make  the  best  nurses, 


158  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

Dr.  Goodno  says.     They  can  feel  their  diagnosis. 
But  you  must  lie  down  till  I  can  come  for  you." 

Left  alone,  Margaret  pressed  her  head  into  the 
cushions  and  tried  to  think.  She  could  not  shake 
off  the  real  impression  of  that  cry.  "Ardee! 
Ardee !"  It  had  come  to  her  with  such  sudden- 
ness that  every  nerve  had  jumped  and  jerked. 
Could  she  have  dreamed  it?  Was  the  sound  of 
that  old  intimate  name  of  hers,  breathed  in  that 
peculiar  voice,  only  a  trick  of  the  imagination? 
Surely  it  must  have  been!  Her  nerves  were 
overwrought  and  frayed.  She  was  hysterical. 
It  was  only  the  muttering  of  some  fever  patient ! 
And  yet,  she  had  felt  that  she  must  see.  An  in- 
definable impulse  had  urged  her  to  beg  Lois  to 
take  her  with  her.  And  now  the  same  horror 
would  seize  her  again,  the  same  sickening  repul- 
sion, and  she  would  have  the  same  fight  over. 

When  Lois  came  for  her,  Margaret  prepared 
herself  quickly  and  they  passed  down.  At  the 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  159 

door  of  the  surgical  ward  they  met  the  house  sur- 
geon, who  nodded  to  Margaret  at  Lois's  intro- 
duction. "Just  going  in  to  see  Faulkner's  tre- 
phine case,"  he  said.  "It's  a  funny  sort." 

"Is  he  coming  through  all  right?"  asked  Lois. 
"That's  the  one  that  was  brought  in  on  your  train 
the  other  night,  Margaret,"  she  added. 

"I'm  afraid  it's  going  to  be  the  very  devil.  He 
took  a  nasty  temperature  this  afternoon,  and  the 
nurse  got  worried  and  called  me  up.  I  found  we 
had  a  good  old-fashioned  case  of  sepsis — wound 
full  of  pus  and  all  that.  What  makes  it  bad  is 
that  he  has  hemiplegia.  The  whole  left  side 
seems  to  be  paralyzed.  The  operation  didn't  re- 
lieve the  brain  pressure,  and  with  his  temperature 
where  it  is  now,  we'll  have  to  simply  take  care  of 
that  and  let  any  further  examination  go.  I've 
just  telephoned  to  Faulkner.  It  won't  be  a  satis- 
factory case,  anyway.  There  is  possibly  some 
deeper  brain  injury  in  the  motor  area,  and  if  we 
beat  the  poison  out,  he  stands  to  turn  out  a  help- 
less cripple.  Some  people  are  never  satisfied," 


160  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

he  continued,  irritably.  "When  they  start  out  to 
break  themselves  up,  they  have  to  do  it  in  some 
confounded  combination  that's  the  very  devil  to 
patch  up.  Coming  in  ?" 

He  held  the  door  open,  and  they  followed  him 
quickly  to  a  nest  of  screens  at  the  upper  end  of 
the  ward,  passing  in  with  him. 

Margaret  forced  her  unwilling  eyes  to  regard 
the  patient  as  the  doctor  laid  a  finger  upon  his 
pulse,  attentively  examined  the  temperature  chart, 
and  departed.  He  lay  with  his  left  side  toward 
them.  The  head  was  partly  shaven,  hideous  with 
bandages,  and  in  an  ice-pack.  The  side-face  was 
drawn,  distorted  and  expressionless.  His  left 
hand  lay  quiet,  but  the  fingers  of  the  right  picked 
and  tumbled  and  drummed  on  the  coverlid  un- 
ceasingly. He  was  muttering  to  himself  in  pecu- 
liar, excitable  monotone.  On  a  sudden  his  voice 
rose  to  audible  pitch : 

"Now,  then !  you'll  come.  Don't  say  you  won't ! 
Why — you  can't  help  it!  You  will!  Do  you 
hear?  *  *  *  *  Take  the  straight  pike  to  the 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  161 

crossroads,  and  then  two  miles  further  on.  The 
Drennen  place — yes,  I  know!" 

At  the  tone  Margaret  started  in  uncontrollable 
excitement.  An  inarticulate  cry  broke  from  her. 
She  ran  to  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and,  her  fingers 
straining  on  the  bars,  gazed  with  fearful  ques- 
tioning into  the  features  of  the  sick  man.  As  she 
gazed,  his  head  rolled  feebly  on  the  pillow,  dis- 
playing the  right  side  of  the  face.  Then  a  low, 
terrible,  choking,  sobbing  cry  rose  to  her  lips — a 
cry  of  pain,  of  remonstrance,  of  desolation. 
"Why,  it's — it's  my — my — it's  Richard  Daunt!" 

Lois  reached  her  in  a  single  step  and  held  her, 
trembling.  But  after  that  one  bitter  sob  she  was 
absolutely  silent.  She  hardly  breathed;  all  her 
soul  seemed  to  be  looking  out  of  her  deep  eyes. 
The  uncouth  mumbling  went  on,  uncertain  but 
incessant. 

"*  *  Drennen  place.  That's  where  she  is.  I'll 
find  her!  Let  me  go!  Quick,  take  this  off  my 
head !  I  tell  you,  I've  got  to  go !  *  *  *  Oh,  my 
dear,  don't  you  want  to  see  me?  You  look  like 


1 62  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

an  autumn  leaf  in  that  scarlet  cloak.  Come  closer 
to  me.  Your  hair  is  like  flame  and  you're  pale — 
pale — pale !  Look  at  me !  *  *  *  How  dare  you 
treat  me  this  way  ?  How  dare  you !  You  knew 
I'd  come  to  you — you  knew  I  couldn't  help  it. 
Some  one  told  me  you  didn't  want  me  to  come. 
*  *  *  It  was  a  letter,  wasn't  it?  Some  one 
wrote  me  a  letter.  But  it  was  a  lie !" 

Lois  readjusted  the  ice-pack,  and  the  voice  died 
down  into  broken  mutterings.  Then  he  began 
again : 

"Where's  Richard  Daunt  ?  You've  got  to  make 
her  understand!  You've  got  to,  and  you  can't. 
You've  failed.  She  used  to  love  you,  and  now 
she's  gone  away  and  left  you.  She  won't  come 
back!  You  can  go  to  the  devil!  *  *  *  Ardee! 
See  how  your  hair  shines  against  the  old  cross! 
Pray  for  her  soul !  Pray — for — her — soul !  *  * 
Ardee !" 

Margaret  bowed  her  face  on  her  hands,  still 
clasping  the  bed-rail.  Great,  clear  tears  welled 
up  in  her  eyes  and  splashed  upon  the  coverlid. 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  163 

She  saw,  as  if  through  a  fleering  maze  of  windy 
rain-sheets,  the  dull,  round,  staring  eyes,  the  yel- 
low skin,  the  restless  fingers  and  unlovely  lips. 
Then  she  stood  upright,  swaying  back  and  put- 
ting both  hands  to  her  temples  as  though  some- 
thing tense  had  snapped  in  her  brain. 

A  pained  wonder  was  in  the  look  she  turned  on 
Lois — something  the  look  of  a  furred  wood-ani- 
mal caught  by  the  thudding  twinge  of  a  bullet. 
The  next  moment  she  threw  herself  softly  on  her 
knees  by  the  cot,  stretching  her  arms  across  the 
straightened  figure,  pressing  her  lips  to  the 
rounded  outline  of  the  knees,  and  between  these 
kisses,  lifting  her  face,  swollen  with  sobless  cry- 
ing, to  gaze  at  the  rolling,  unrecognizing  fea- 
tures beside  her.  Agony  was  in  the  puffed  hol- 
lows beneath  her  eyes,  and  her  lips  were  drawn 
with  the  terrible  yearning  of  a  mother  for  her 
ailing  child. 

Lois  raised  her  forcefully,  yet  feeling  a  strange 
powerlessness,  and  drew  her  away,  with  a  finger 
on  her  lip  and  a  warning  glance  beyond  the 


1 64  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

screens,  and  Margaret  followed  her  with  the 
tranced  gaze  of  a  sleep-walker.  There  was  no 
repugnance  or  distrust  in  it  now,  or  fleshly  horror 
of  sickness. 

In  her  room  again,  she  stood  before  the  win- 
dow, her  mind  reaching  out  for  the  new  sweet- 
ness that  had  dropped  around  her.  All  that  she 
had  thought  strongest  in  her  old  love  had  shrunk 
to  pitiful  detail.  Between  her  young,  lithe  body 
and  the  broken  and  ravaged  wreck  she  had  seen, 
there  could  then  be  no  bond  of  bounding  blood 
and  throbbing  flesh;  but  love,  masterful,  undis- 
mayed, had  cried  for  its  own.  Something  was 
dissolving  within  her  heart — something  breaking 
down  and  away  of  its  own  weight.  She  felt 
the  fight  finished.  It  had  not  been  fought  out, 
but  the  combatants  who  had  gripped  throat  in 
the  darkness  had  started  back  in  the  new  dawn, 
to  behold  themselves  brothers.  There  was  a  pri- 
mal directness  in  the  blow  that  had  thrust  her 
back — somewhere — back  from  all  self -question- 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  165 

ings  and  the  torture  of  mental  misunderstanding, 
upon  herself.  It  was  an  appeal  to  Caesar.  Be- 
neath the  decree,  the  rigidity  of  belief  that  had 
lain  back  of  her  determination  turned  suddenly 
flexible.  She  did  not  try  to  reason — she  felt. 
But  this  feeling  was  ultimate,  final.  She  knew 
that  she  could  never  doubt  herself  again. 

The  green  glints  from  the  grass-plots  on  the 
tree-lined  street  and  the  sun  on  the  gray  asphalt 
filled  her  with  a  warm  tenderness.  Every  bird 
in  all  the  world  was  piping  full-throated;  every 
spray  on  every  bush  was  hung  with  lush  blossoms 
and  drenched  with  fragrance.  The  swell  of  fill- 
ing lungs  and  tumultuous  blood — the  ecstasy  of 
breathing  had  returned  to  her.  The  joy-bitter 
gladness  of  the  heart  and  the  world,  the  enfold- 
ing arms  of  the  unforgot,  clasped  her  round.  It 
was  for  her  the  Soul's  renaissance.  The  Great 
Illumination  had  come ! 

As  Lois  gazed  at  her,  mystified,  she  turned, 
with  both  hands  pressed  against  her  breast,  and 
laughed. 


XVI. 

Closing  the  door,  Margaret  opened  her  trunk 
and  from  the  very  bottom  produced  a  slender 
bunch  of  letters.  She  lit  the  small  metal  lamp 
and  placed  it  on  the  wicker  chair,  kneeling  beside 
it  with  an  unreasoning  sense  that  there  was  a 
fitness  in  the  posture.  Her  fingers  trembled  as 
she  touched  the  black  ribbon  which  held  the  let- 
ters, and  she  stayed  herself,  swaying  against  a 
chair,  as  she  unknotted  it.  There  were  a  few 
folded  sheets  of  paper — pencilled  notes  left  for 
her — a  telegram  or  two,  and  four  letters.  Before 
she  read  the  first  letter,  she  laid  it  against  her 
face,  lovingly,  as  though  it  were  a  sentient  thing. 
She  read  them  one  by  one  very  slowly,  some- 
times smiling  faintly  with  a  childish  trembling  of 
the  lips — smiles  that  were  followed  quickly  by 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  167 

tears  which  gathered  in  her  great  eyes  and  rolled 
down  her  cheeks.  When  she  had  finished  reading 
the  last  one,  she  made  a  little  pile  of  them.  Then, 
taking  from  her  trunk  writing  paper,  ink  and  pen, 
she  laid  them  upon  the  floor  beside  the  pile  of  let- 
ters and  stretched  herself  full  length  upon  the 
heavy  rug.  As  she  lay  leaning  upon  her  elbows, 
with  eyes  gazing  straight  before  her,  she  looked 
like  some  desolate,  wind-broken  reed  over  which 
the  storm  had  passed.  She  wrote  slowly,  with 
careful  fingers,  forming  her  letters  with  almost 
laborious  precision,  like  a  little  child  who  writes 
for  a  special  and  fond  eye : 

"My  Beloved :  Please  forgive  me.  Please  try 
to  forget  how  cruel  I  was  and  think  kindly  of  me. 
I  have  been  so  wretched.  All  through  the  slow 
days  since  I  went  away,  I  have  longed  so  for  you. 
All  the  many  dark  nights  I  have  dreamed  of  you 
and  cried  for  you.  If  you  could  only  know  now 
while  you  are  suffering  so.  If  you  could  only 
know  how  I  longed  for  you  all  that  time,  I  would 


1 68  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

not  suffer  so  now.  I  want  so  much  to  tell  you. 
I  want  to  tell  you  that  I  love  you  every  way  and 
all  ways.  I  loved  you  this  way  all  the  time,  only 
I  didn't  know  it,  and  I  wanted  to  love  you  the 
way  I  know  I  do  now.  I  must  have  been  mad,  I 
think.  I  was  so  selfish  and  so  cruel,  and  I  thought 
I  was  trying  to  be  so  good.  I  could  die  when  I 
think  that  it  was  I  who  brought  all  this  suf- 
fering upon  you.  To  think  that  you  might  have 
been  killed  and  that  I  might  never  have  been  able 
to  tell  you!  Richard,  I  have  learned  what  love 
is.  Do  other  women  ever  have  to  learn  it  as 
hardly,  I  wonder? 

"Do  you  know,  it  was  not  until  to-day  that  I 
knew  you  were  here — that  you  were  hurt?  And 
yet  we  came  here  on  the  same  train  together.  If 
God  had  let  me  know  it  then,  I  think  I  should 
have  died  on  that  long,  terrible  journey.  You 
did  not  know  what  you  were  saying,  and  I  heard 
you  call  'Ardee!  Ardee!'  just  as  you  used  to  at 
the  beach.  That  cry  reached  out  of  the  dark  and 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  169 

took  hold  of  my  heart  as  though  it  were  an  invis- 
ible hand  drawing  me  to  you. 

"And  I  had  been  running  away  from  you  when 
I  came — running  away  from  you  and  myself.  I 
knew  you  meant  to  stay  at  Warne  and  see  me 
again.  And  I  knew  if  I  saw  you  again,  I  could 
not  struggle  any  longer — you  were  so  strong. 
And  you  were  right,  too ;  I  know  that  now,  dear. 

"The  last  time  I  met  you  in  the  field,  my  heart 
leaped  to  tell  you  'yes.'  I  was  so  hungry — hun- 
gry— hungry  for  you.  And  I  was  afraid  of  my 
own  self.  I  distrusted  my  own  heart,  but  it  was 
only  because  I  wanted  to  love  you  with  my  soul — 
with  the  other  side  of  me — the  side  that  I  did  not 
know,  that  I  could  not  feel  sure  you  filled.  Oh, 
you  must  have  thought  me  unnatural,  abnormal, 
hateful.  Dear,  such  doubts  come  to  women,  and 
they  are  terrible  things.  There  is  more  of  the 
elemental  in  men.  The  finer — the  further  pas- 
sion of  love  they  know,  when  women  fail  to 
grasp  it.  We  have  to  learn  it — it  is  one  of  the 


1 70  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

lessons  which  men  teach  us.  When  my  heart 
was  so  full  of  doubt,  I  made  up  my  mind  to  cru- 
cify my  bodily  sensibilities.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  I  must  let  my  soul  come  uppermost. 

"Don't  you  remember  how  I  never  could  bear 
to  look  at  your  collie  that  was  sick,  and  how  ter- 
ribly ill  I  got  when  I  tried  to  tie  up  your  hand 
the  day  you  cut  it?  All  through  my  life,  I  have 
never  been  able  to  look  on  suffering  or  pain.  I 
always  used  to  avoid  it  or  shirk  it.  When  I  got 
to  thinking,  at  Warne,  of  my  own  soul,  it  seemed 
to  me  that  I  had  been  unwomanly  and  selfish, 
cruelly,  heartlessly  selfish,  and  that  I  had  dwarfed 
that  soul  that  I  must  make  grow  again. 

"So  I  came  down  here. 

"All  along  I  have  had  such  a  horror  of  this 
place.  I  could  not  overcome  it.  Every  hour  was 
full  of  misery. 

"To-day  I  went  through  the  wards  and  I  found 
you. 

"Dearest,  I  am  so  happy  and  I  am  so  miser- 
able— miserable  because  I  have  found  you  suffer- 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  171 

ing.  Every  moment  is  a  long  agony  to  me.  And 
happy  because  I  have  found  myself.  My  soul 
and  I  are  friends  again.  Some  wonderful  mir- 
acle was  worked  for  me  to-day,  and  it  is  so  brill- 
iant, so  wonderful,  that  it  has  left  no  room  in  my 
mind  for  anything  else. 

"It  was  not  the  old  familiar  face  that  I  saw 
against  the  pillows  to-night.  It  was  not  the  old 
dear  voice  that  called  to  me.  It  was  not  the  old 
Daunt.  The  wavy  hair  is  gone,  and  there  is  no 
color  in  your  cheeks.  But,  dear,  when  I  saw 
your  poor  face  all  drawn  and  your  lips  all  cracked 
with  fever,  my  heart  came  up  in  my  throat  so  that 
I  could  not  breathe.  I  wanted  to  kiss  your  face, 
your  hands.  I  wanted  to  kiss  even  the  bandages 
that  were  around  your  head.  I  wanted  to  put 
my  arms  around  you.  I  felt  strong  enough  to 
keep  anything  from  you — even  death.  All  in  a 
moment  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  was  your  mother, 
and  you  were  my  little  child  who  was  sick.  And 
yet  so  much  more  so — infinitely  much  more  than 
that.  It  came  to  me  then  like  a  flash,  how  wrong 


1 72  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

— wickedly  wrong  I  had  been.  Everything  dis- 
appeared but  you  and  me.  It  was  not  your  body 
that  I  loved.  It  was  not  the  body  that  that 
broken  thing  had  been  that  I  loved,  but  it  was 
you — you,  the  inner  something  for  whose  sake  I 
had  loved  the  Richard  Daunt  that  I  knew. 

"You  could  not  speak  to  me.  You  did  not  know 
that  I  was  there.  You  could  not  plead  with  me, 
but  my  own  self  pleaded.  You'll  never  have  to 
beg  me  to  stay  or  go  with  you  again.  You  need 
me  now — only  I  know  how  much.  You  cannot 
even  know  that  I  am  near  you,  that  I  am  talking 
to  you,  that  I  am  telling  you  all  about  it.  I  know 
that  you  will  never  see  this  letter,  and  yet  some- 
how it  eases  my  heart  a  little  to  write  it.  I  have 
read  over  all  the  letters  that  you  have  sent  me, 
and  they  are  such  brave,  such  true  letters.  I 
understand  them  now.  They  have  been  read  and 
cried  over  a  great  many  times  since  you  wrote 
them. 

"I  am  waiting  now  every  day,  every  hour  when 
I  can  tell  you  all  this  with  my  own  lips,  and 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  1 73 

when  your  dear  eyes  will  open  again  and  smile  up 
into  mine  with  the  old  boyish  smile — and  when 
you  will  put  your  arms  around  my  neck  and  tell 
me  that  you  know  all  about  it,  and  that  you  for- 
give me." 

Her  tears  had  been  dropping  fast  upon  the 
page,  and  she  stopped  from  time  to  time  to  wipe 
them  with  the  draping  meshes  of  her  loose,  rust- 
colored  hair.  She  did  not  even  turn  as  she  heard 
a  hand  at  the  door. 

"Why,  Margaret !"  said  Lois,  "it  is  two  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  and  I  have  just  finished  my  last 
round.  Come,  child,  you  must  go  to  bed  at  once. 
I  see  that  I  have  got  to  be  a  stern  chaperon. 
What!  writing?" 

"It  is  a  letter,"  said  Margaret.  "I  have  just 
finished  it."  She  lifted  the  tongs  and  poked  the 
fire-logs  until  there  was  a  crackling  blaze,  then 
she  gathered  up  the  loose  ink-stained  sheets  care- 
fully, and,  leaning  forward,  laid  them  in  a  square 
white  heap  upon  the  red  embers.  The  flame 
sprang  up  and  around  them,  reaching  for  them 


1 74  -^  Furnace  of  Earth. 

voraciously.  And  Lois,  seeing  the  action,  but 
making  no  comment,  came  and  sat  down  on  the 
rug  beside  Margaret,  and  wistfully  and  tenderly 
drew  the  brown,  bowed  head  into  her  sisterly 
arms. 


XVII. 

"Lois" — Mrs.  Goodno,  standing  in  the  door- 
way, drew  her  favorite  close  beside  her — "look 
at  the  picture  coming  down  the  hall!  Isn't  she 
beautiful  ?"  There  was  a  spontaneous  and  genu- 
ine admiration  in  her  tone  as  she  spoke. 

A  something  indefinable,  an  atmosphere  of 
loveliness,  seemed  to  breathe  from  Margaret's 
every  motion  as  she  came  toward  them.  Her 
cheeks  had  a  delicate  flush,  her  glance  was 
bright  and  roving,  and  her  perfect  lips  were 
tremulous.  Her  look  had  a  new  mystery  in  it — a 
brooding  tenderness,  like  the  look  of  a  young 
mother. 

"All  through  the  nurses'  lecture  this  morning," 
said  Lois,  "I  noticed  her.  When  she  smiled  it 
made  one  want  to  smile,  too !" 


1 76  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

As  Margaret  reached  them  and  greeted  Mrs. 
Goodno,  Lois  joined  her,  and  the  two  girls  walked 
down  the  hall  together  to  their  room. 

"Now,"  said  Lois,  as  she  took  a  text-book 
from  the  drab-backed  row  on  the  low  corner 
shelf,  and  assumed  a  judicial  demeanor,  "I'm 
morally  certain  that  you  haven't  studied  your 
Weeks-Shaw  this  morning,  and  I'm  going  to  quiz 
you." 

Margaret  broke  into  a  laugh.  "Try  it,"  she 
said  gayly.  "You're  going  to  ask  me  to  define 
health,  and  to  show  the  difference  between  objec- 
tive and  subjective  symptoms,  and  tell  you  what 
is  a  mulberry-tongue.  Health  is  a  perfect  circu- 
lation of  pure  blood  in  a  sound  organism.  How 
is  that?" 

"Good!"  Lois,  sitting  down  by  the  window, 
was  laughing,  too.  "When  the  doctor  quizzes 
you,  you  may  not  know  it  so  well !  Suppose  you 
explain  to  me  the  theory  of  counter-irritants." 

Margaret  swooped  down  upon  her,  and  kneel- 
ing by  her  chair,  put  both  hands  over  the  page, 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  177 

looking  up  into  her  face.  "Don't!"  she  said. 
"What  do  I  care  for  it  all  to-day!  Oh,  Lois! 
Lois!"  she  whispered  in  the  hushed  voice  of  a 
child  about  to  tell  a  dear  secret,  "I  am  so  happy ! 
I  am  so  happy  that  I  can't  tell  it !  To  think  that 
I  can  watch  him  and  nurse  him,  and  take  his  tem- 
perature! I  can  help  cure  him  and  see  him  get 
better  and  better  every  day.  When  he  talks,  he 
pronounces  queerly  and  his  words  get  all  jumbled 
up,  and  his  sentences  have  no  ends  to  them,  but 
I  love  to  hear  it — I  know  what  they  are  trying  to 
say!  He  is  so  weak  that  I  feel  as  if  I  were  his 
mother.  I  know  you've  told  Mrs.  Goodno; 
haven't  you,  dear?  Somehow  I  knew  it  just  now 
when  she  smiled  at  us !  I  don't  care  if  you  did — 
not  a  bit — if  she  will  only  let  me  stay  by  him." 

Lois  patted  the  bronzing  gloss  of  the  uplifted 
head.  "I  did  tell  her,"  she  said.  "I  thought  I 
ought  to — but  she  understands.  Never  fear 
about  that." 

"I  wonder  what  makes  me  so  happy!  I  love 
all  the  world,  Lois !  Did  you  ever  feel  that  way  ?" 


1 78  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

The  light  wing  of  a  shadow  brushed  the  face 
above  her,  and  deep  in  its  eyes  darkled  a  some- 
thing hidden  there  that  was  almost  envy. 

The  voice  went  running  on:  "Suppose  he 
should  open  his  eyes  suddenly  to-night — con- 
scious! Do  you  know  what  I  would  do?  I 
would  slip  off  this  apron  all  in  a  minute,  so  he 
should  see  me  and  know  me  first  of  all.  I  have 
my  hair  the  way  he  likes  it.  I  wish  I  could  do 
more  for  him!  Love  is  service.  I  want  to  tire 
myself  out  doing  things  to  help  him.  Why,  only 
think !  It  was  my  fault  he  was  hurt.  I  sent  him 
away  when  it  was  breaking  my  heart  to  do  it." 

"If  he  should  know  you  to-day,  dear,"  Lois 
said,  her  face  flashing  into  a  smile,  "it  ought  to 
help  him  get  well.  There  is  joy  bubbling  out  all 
over  you !" 

"I'm  so  glad  he's  not  conscious  now,  for  when 
he  isn't  he  doesn't  suffer.  Sometimes  last  night 
he  seemed  to,  and  then  I  ached  all  over  to  suffer 
for  him.  I  could  laugh  out  loud  through  the 
pain,  to  think  that  I  was  bearing  it  for  him !  Oh, 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  1 79 

Lois,  I  haven't  understood.  I  see  now  what 
you  love  in  this  life  here.  It  isn't  only  bodies 
that  you  are  curing;  it's  souls — that  you're  mak- 
ing sound  houses  for." 

Drawing  Lois's  arm  through  hers,  Margaret 
pointed  to  where  the  huge  entrance  showed,  from 
the  deep  window.  "Do  you  know,  the  first  day 
we  came  in  there  together,  I  was  the  unhappiest 
girl  in  the  world.  It  seemed  as  though  I  was 
being  dragged  into  some  dreadful  black  cave, 
where  there  was  no  sun,  no  flowers,  nothing  but 
ghastly  sights  and  people  that  were  dying !  The 
first  day  I  went  with  you  through  the  wards  I 
hated  it.  I  wanted  to  shut  my  eyes  and  run  away 
as  far  as  I  could  from  it !" 

"I  know  that ;  I  saw  it." 

"But  now  that  is  all  changed.  I  never  shall 
see  a  body  suffer  again  without  wanting  to  put 
my  hands  on  it  and  soothe  it.  Life  is  so  much 
sweeter  and  deeper  than  I  knew !  It's  hard  to  be 
quiet.  I'm  walking  to  music.  I  must  go  around 
all  the  time  singing.  It  seems  wicked  of  me  to 


180  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

be  so  happy  when  I  know  that  it  will  be  days  and 
days  yet  before  he  can  even  sit  up  and  let  me  read 
to  him.  But  I  can't  help  it.  I  was  so  wretched 
all  the  time  before,  that  the  joy  now  seems  to  be  a 
part  of  me.  It  seems  to  be  his  joy,  too.  He 
would  be  glad  if  he  could  know  that,  in  spite  of 
all  I  thought  and  everything  I  said,  I  love  him 
now  as  he  wanted  me  to,  and  that  nothing  ever 
can  come  between  us  again !  Isn't  it  time  to  go 
in  yet  ?  I  can  hardly  wait  for  the  hour !" 

Lois  looked  at  her  watch.  "It's  near  enough," 
she  said.  "Come.  Dr.  Faulkner  is  somewhere  in 
the  ward  now,  and  I  must  get  instructions." 

Daunt  lay  perfectly  quiet,  his  restless  hand  still. 
An  orderly  was  changing  the  phials  upon  the 
glass-topped  table  and  nodded  to  them. 

Lois  darted  a  quick  glance  at  the  face  on  the 
pillow,  and  her  own  changed.  A  stealthy  fear 
crept  over  her.  Margaret's  head  was  turned 
away  toward  the  cot.  How  should  she  tell  her? 
How  let  her  know  that  subtle  change  of  the  last 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  181 

few  hours  that  her  own  trained  eye  noted  ?  How 
let  out  for  her  the  strenuous  agony  that  waited 
in  that  room?  The  pitiful  unconsciousness  of 
evil  in  the  graceful  posture  went  through  her 
with  a  start  of  anguish. 

The  soft  footfall  of  the  visiting  surgeon  drew 
near,  and  with  swift  prescience  she  moved  close 
to  Margaret.  He  bent  over  the  figure  in  rapid 
professional  inquiry  and  consulted  the  chart,  nod- 
ding his  head  as  he  tabulated  his  observations  in 
a  running,  semi-audible  comment. 

"H — m !  well-developed  septic  fever.  Delirium 
comes  on  at  night,  you  say,  nurse.  Eh  ?  H — m ! 
Pulse  very  rapid  and  stringy — hurried  and  shal- 
low breathing — eyes  dull,  with  inequality  of 
pupils.  H — m !  Face  flushed — lips  blue — extrem- 
ities cold.  Lips  and  teeth  covered  with  sordes — 
typical  case.  H — m!  Complete  lethargy  — 
clammy  sweat — face  assuming  a  hippocratic  type. 
Temperature  sub-normal.  H — m!  Yes.  Nurse, 
please  preserve  all  notes  of  this  case.  It's  inter- 
esting. Very.  Like  to  see  it  in  the  'Record.'  " 


1 82  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

"What  are  the  probabilities,  doctor?"  It  was 
the  sentence.  Lois's  lips  were  trembling,  and  she 
put  a  hand  on  Margaret's  arm. 

"Probabilities  ?  H — m !  Give  him  about  twelve 
hours  and  that's  generous.  Never  any  hope  in  a 
case  of  this  kind.  Why,  the  man's  dying  now. 
Look  at  his  face." 

A  piteous,  chalky  whiteness  swept  like  a  wave 
over  Margaret's  cheeks,  but  she  had  made  no 
sound.  When  the  doctor  was  quite  gone,  she 
swerved  a  little  on  her  feet,  as  though  her  limbs 
had  weakened,  and  her  lips  opened  and  shut 
voicelessly,  as  if  whispering  to  herself.  Lois 
dreaded  a  cry,  but  there  was  none ;  she  only  shut 
her  eyes,  and  covered  her  poor  face,  gone  sud- 
denly pinched  and  pallid,  with  her  two  hands. 

"Wait,  Margaret."  Lois  held  out  a  hand 
whose  professional  coolness  was  touched  with  an 
unwonted  tremor.  "Wait  a  moment,  dear."  She 
ran  to  the  hall  to  see  that  no  one  was  in  sight. 
Then  running  back  and  putting  her  arm  around 
Margaret's  shoulders,  she  led  her,  blind  and  un- 
resisting, to  the  stair. 


XVIII. 

The  house  surgeon  stretched  his  long  legs 
Jazily  in  a  corner  of  the  office  and  looked  at  the 
hospital  superintendent  through  the  purplish 
haze  from  his  cigar.  "I  wonder,  Goodno,"  he 
said,  "that  you  have  time  to  get  interested  in  any 
one  case  among  so  many.  I'd  like  to  see  the  one 
you  speak  of  pull  through ;  it's  a  rather  unusual 
case,  and  a  trephine  always  absorbs  me." 

Dr.  Goodno  lighted  a  companion  cigar.  "My 
interest  in  him  isn't  wholly  professional,"  he 
answered  slowly.  "It's  personal.  In  the  first 
place,  he  isn't  an  Italian  stevedore  or  a  Pole  ped- 
dler from  Baxter  street.  He  is  a  man  of  a  great 
deal  of  promise.  He  has  published  a  book  or 
two,  I  believe.  And  in  the  second  place,  my  wife 
is  very  much  concerned." 

"Always  seems  to  be  the  trouble,  doesn't  it? 


184  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

Enter  a  romance!"  Dr.  Irwin  waved  his  hand 
widely. 

"Yes,  it's  a  romance.  To  tell  the  truth,  Irwin, 
Mrs.  Goodno  knows  of  the  young  woman,  and  I 
can't  tell  you  how  anxious  she  is  about  him. 
There's  nothing  sadder  to  me  than  a  case  like 
that." 

"Ah!"  the  other  said,  "that's  because  you're  a 

married  man.     The  rest  of  us  haven't  time    to 

v 

grow  sympathetic.  I  should  say  that  the  par- 
ticular young  woman  would  be  a  great  deal  bet- 
ter off,  judging  from  present  indications,  if  he 
did  die." 

"Why?" 

"Because,  if  he  should  recover  from  this  septic 
condition,  he's  more  than  likely  to  be  a  stick  for 
the  rest  of  his  life.  It's  even  chances  he  never 
puts  foot  to  the  ground  again.  Such  men  are 
better  dead,  and  if  you  gave  them  their  choice, 
most  of  them  would  prefer  it." 

"I  didn't  know  it  was  as  bad  as  that.     Dr. 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  185 

Faulkner's  earlier  prognosis  was    more    favor- 
able." 

"Yes,  but  I  don't  like  his  temperature  of  the 
last  two  days.  He's  got  septic  symptoms,  and 
you  know  how  quickly  such  a  course  ends.  Well, 
we'll  soon  know,  though  that's  more  consolation 
to  us  than  it  might  be  to  him,  I  suppose."  He 
drummed  with  his  fingers  on  the  arm  of  the  chair. 
"As  for  the  girl,"  he  continued.  "Love  ?  Pshaw ! 
She'll  get  over  it.  What  sensible  woman,  when 
she's  got  beyond  the  mooning  age  and  the  for- 
eign missionary  age,  wants  a  cripple  for  a  hus- 
band? If  this  patient  should  live  in  that  way, 
this  girl  you  speak  of  would  probably  get  the 
silly  notion  that  she  wanted  to  marry  him — trust 
a  woman,  especially  a  young  woman,  for  that! 
If  she's  beautiful  or  wealthy,  or  particularly  tal- 
ented, it's  all  the  more  likely  she  would  insist  on 
tying  herself  up  to  him  and  nurse  him  and  feed 
him  gruel  till  her  hair  was  gray.  And  what 
would  she  get  out  of  it  ?" 


1 86  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

"There  might  be  worse  lives  than  that."  Dr. 
Goodno  spoke  reflectively. 

"For  her,  I  presume  you  mean  ?" 

"Yes.  Woman's  love  is  less  of  a  physical  affin- 
ity and  more  a  consciousness  of  spiritual  attrac- 
tion than  man's." 

"Teach  your  women  that.  It's  not  without 
its  merits  as  a  working  doctrine.  The  time  a 
woman  isn't  thinking  about  servants  or  babies 
she  generally  spends  thinking  about  her  soul. 
The  word  soul  to  her  is  as  fascinating  as  a  canary 
to  an  Angora  cat.  She  takes  so  much  stock  in 
heaven  only  because  she's  been  told  it  isn't  ma- 
terial. Your  material  philosophies  were  all  in- 
vented and  patented  by  men ;  it's  the  women  who 
keep  your  spiritual  religions  running." 

"How  would  you  have  it  ?" 

"Oh,  it's  all  right  as  far  as  heaven  goes !  Let 
them  believe  anything  they  want  to.  But  when 
you  bring  the  all-soul  idea  down  into  every-day 
life,  it's  mawkish.  When  you  go  about  preach- 
ing that  love  is  a  spiritual  'affinity/  for  instance." 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  187 

"Well?" 

"You  may  believe  it,  understand.  But  you 
gloss  over  the  other  side.  The  general  opinion 
is  that  'bodily'  isn't  a  nice  word  to  use  when  we 
discuss  love.  You  and  I,  as  physicians,  see  every 
day  the  results  of  this  dislike  to  recognize  the 
material  side  in  what  has  been  called  the  'young 
person.'  Women  are  taught  from  childhood  to 
regard  the  immensely  human  and  emotional  sen- 
sibilities as  linked  to  sin.  The  sex-stirring  in 
them,  they  are  led  to  imagine  evil  and  a  wrong 
to  possess.  They  are  taught  instinctively  to  con- 
demn rather  than  to  respect  the  growth  and  in- 
dications of  their  own  natures.  The  profound 
attraction  of  one  sex  to  the  other  which  marks  the 
purest  and  most  ennobling  passion — the  trem- 
bling delight  in  the  merest  touch  or  caress — the 
bodily  thrill  at  the  passing  presence  or  footfall  of 
the  one  beloved — these  they  come  to  believe  a 
shame  to  feel  and  a  death  to  confess.  It  is  the 
teaching  that  makes  for  the  morbid.  A  great 
deal  of  mental  suffering  which  leaves  its  mark 


1 88  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

upon  the  growing  woman  might  be  avoided  if 
men  and  women  were  more  honest  with  them- 
selves. A  soulless  woman  is  just  as  much  use  in 
the  world  as  a  bodiless  one — or  a  man  either,  for 
that  matter." 

Dr.  Goodno  regarded  him  musingly.  "Granted 
there  is  a  good  deal  of  truth  in  what  you  say,"  he 
said.  "When  I  spoke  of  woman's  love  as  more 
of  a  spiritual  and  less  of  a  material  affinity  than 
man's,  I  meant  that  it  does  not  require  so  much 
from  the  senses  to  feed  upon.  Sex  has  a  psy- 
chology, and  it  is  a  fact  which  has  been  univer- 
sally noted  that  all  that  concerns  the  mental  as- 
pect of  sex  is  exhibited  in  greater  proportionate 
force  by  women.  Does  not  this  seem  to  imply 
that  love  to  a  woman  is  more  of  a  mental  element 
and  less  of  a  physical  ?" 

"Nonsense!  More  of  a  mental,  but  only  so 
because  more  of  a  physical,  too.  All  love's  men- 
tal delights  come  originally  from  the  physical 
side.  How  many  women  do  you  see  falling  in 
love  with  twisted  faces  and  crooked  joints?  A 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  189 

hand  stands  for  a  hand-clasp ;  a  face  for  a  kiss ! 
Love  becomes  a  'spiritual'  passion  only  after  it 
has  blossomed  on  physical  expression.  Not  be- 
fore." 

The  other  shook  his  head  doubtfully. 

"If  your  view  were  the  correct  one,"  pursued 
Irwin,  "women,  in  all  their  habitual  acts  of  fas- 
cination (which  are  Nature's  precursors  of  love) 
would  strive  more  to  touch  the  mental,  the  spir- 
itual side  of  men.  But  they  don't.  They  apply 
their  own  self-learned  reasoning  to  the  opposite 
sex.  They  decorate  themselves  for  man  with  the 
feathers  of  male  birds  (you'll  find  that  in  your 
Darwin),  which  Nature  gave  the  male  birds  to 
charm  the  females.  They  strike  at  his  senses, 
and  they  hit  his  mental  side,  when  he  has  any, 
through  them." 

"You're  a  sad  misogynist,  Irwin !"  Dr.  Goodno 
was  smiling,  but  there  was  a  sub-note  of  earnest- 
ness beneath  the  lightness  of  his  tone.  "And  you 
forget  that  women  have  an  imaginative  and  ideal 
side  which  is  superior  to  man's.  They  can  create 


igo  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

the  mental,  possibly,  where  men  are  most  de- 
pendent upon  sense-impression.  Love  involves 
more  of  the  soul  in  woman,  Irwin." 

The  house  surgeon  unwound  his  legs.  "Or 
less,"  he  said  tersely.  "Havelock  Ellis  says  a  good 
thing.  He  says  that  while  a  man  may  be  said  to 
live  on  a  plane,  a  woman  is  more  apt  to  live  on 
the  upward  or  downward  slope  of  a  curve.  She 
is  always  going  up  or  coming  down.  That's 
why  a  woman,  when  an  artificial  civilization 
hasn't  stepped  in  to  forbid  it,  is  forever  talking 
about  her  health.  And,  spiritually,  as  well  as 
physically,  she  is  just  as  apt  to  be  coming  down 
as  going  up.  Her  proportion  is  wrong.  Your 
bad  woman  disrespects  her  soul;  your  good 
woman  disrespects  her  body.  The  wholesome 
woman  disrespects  neither  and  respects  both.  But 
very  few  young  women  are  wholesome  nowadays. 
Their  training  has  been  against  it!  The  best 
way  for  a  woman  to  treat  her  soul  is  to  realize 
that  her  soul  and  body  belong  together,  and  have 
to  live  together  the  rest  of  her  natural  life.  She 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  191 

needn't  forget  this  just  because  she  happens  to 
fall  in  love !  No  woman  can  marry  a  man  whom 
accident  has  robbed  of  his  physical  side  and  not 
wrong  herself.  She  shuts  off  the  avenues  of  her 
senses.  There  is  no  thrill  of  ear  or  hand — no 
comeliness  for  her  eye  to  dwell  upon,  and  her 
spiritual  love,  so  beautiful  to  begin  with,  starves 
itself  slowly  to  death!" 

"Very  good  on  general  principles,"  said  Dr. 
Goodno.  "That's  the  trouble.  It's  easy  enough 
to  sermonize  in  the  pulpit,  or  the  clinic  either,  but 
when  we  come  to  concrete  examples,  it's  difficult. 
The  particular  instance  is  troublesome.  Now,  in 
the  case  of  this  man  in  the  surgical  ward,  if  he 
recovered  at  all,  but  remained  a  hopeless  cripple, 
you  would  pack  him  off  into  a  rayless  solitude 
for  the  rest  of  his  life,  and  tell  the  girl  who  loves 
him  to  go  and  love  somebody  else.  You  wouldn't 
leave  it  to  her — even  if  he  was  willing." 

"Wouldn't  youf" 

"No !  I  would  be  afraid  to  arrogate  to  myself 
the  judgment  upon  two  human  souls.  There  are 


192  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

times  when  what  we  call  consistency  vanishes  and 
something  greater  and  more  noble  stands  up  to 
make  it  ashamed.  I'll  tell  you  now,  Irwin,  if  the 
one  woman  in  the  world  to  me — the  woman  I 
loved — if  my  wife — had  been  brought  where  the 
case  we've  been  speaking  of  promises  to  be — if 
there  were  nothing  but  her  eyes  left  and  the 
something  that  is  back  of  them — I  tell  you,  I'd 
have  married  her!  Yes,  and  I'd  have  thanked 
God  for  it!" 

His  companion  tossed  the  dead  butt  of  his 
cigar  into  the  grate  and  rose  to  go  to  the  ward. 
"Goodno,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  unsteady, 
"I  believe  it!  You  would;  and  I  wish  to  the 
Lord  I  knew  what  that  meant !" 

The  superintendent  sat  long  thinking.  He 
was  still  pondering  when  his  wife  entered  the 
room.  "I've  just  been  talking  with  Irwin,"  he 
said,  "about  the  last  trephine  case — the  one  you 
spoke  to  me  of.  He  doesn't  seem  tdo  hopeful, 
I'm  sorry  to  say." 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  193 

She  did  not  answer. 

"By  the  way,"  he  continued,  "I  saw  your  new 
nurse  protegee  to-day.  Langdon,  I  believe  her 
name  is.  She  is  a  lovely  girl;  I  think  I  never 
saw  a  brighter,  sweeter  face  in  my  life." 

Mrs.  Goodno  had  gone  to  the  window  and 
stood  looking  out.  "Doctor,"  she  said,  "I've  bad 
news.  Dr.  Faulkner  has  just  seen  Mr.  Daunt, 
and — he  is  dying." 

Something  in  her  voice  caught  him.  He  rose 
and  came  beside  her,  and  saw  that  her  eyes  were 
full  of  tears.  He  drew  her  head  to  his  shoulder 
and  smoothed  her  hair  gently.  He  could  feel  her 
hands  quiver  against  his  arm.  His  thoughts  fled 
far  away — somewhere — where  the  one  for  whose 
sorrow  she  cried  must  be  uncomforted.  "Poor 
girl !  Poor  girl !"  he  said. 


XIX. 

As  they  entered  the  room,  Lois  turned  the  key 
in  its  lock  and  bent  a  long,  penetrating  gaze  on 
Margaret. 

She  lay  huddled  against  the  welter  of  bed- 
clothes, silent,  inert,  pearl-pale  spots  on  her 
cheeks  like  gray-white  smothers  of  foam  over 
fretting  rocks.  Her  eyes  were  closed  and  her 
breath  came  chokingly,  like  a  child's  after  a 
draught  of  strong  medicine.  Suddenly,  as  Lois 
stood  pondering,  she  kneeled  upright  on  the  bed, 
holding  her  arms  out  before  her. 

"Oh,  God!"  she  cried,  "don't  let  him  die! 
Please  don't!  He  can't— he  can't  die!  Why, 
he's  Richard — Richard  Daunt.  It's  only  an  acci- 
dent. He  can't  die  that  way.  God — God !" 

"Hush,  dear!  Oh,  dear!  What  can  I  say?" 
cried  Lois, 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  195 

Margaret  slipped  to  the  floor,  dragging  the 
covers  with  her,  and  burying  her  face  in  the  fleecy 
cuddle.  There  she  writhed  like  some  trodden 
thing. 

"Oh,  dear  God!"  she  sobbed,  "just  when  I 
knew.  He  can't  die  now!  It's  just  to  punish 
me;  I've  been  wicked,  but  I  didn't  mean  to  be. 
I  only  wanted  his  good !  If  he  had  only  died  be- 
fore I  knew  it!  Only  let  him  live  till  I  can  tell 
him,  God.  I'm  not  a  wicked  woman — you  know 
how  I  tried.  A  wicked  woman  wouldn't  have 
tried.  Oh,  God,  he  doesn't  even  know !  I  can't 
tell  him.  I've  suffered  already.  If  he  died,  I 
couldn't  feel  worse  than  I  have  all  this  time.  Let 
me  think  he's  going  to  die,  but  don't  let  him. 
Don't  let  him!  I  want  him  so!  It  isn't  for  that 
that  I  want  him!  I  know  now.  I  thought  it 
was  the  other.  But  I  wasn't  so  wicked  as  that. 
I've  been  selfish.  I've  been  thinking  I  was  good 
to  keep  him  away,  but  I  wasn't.  I  was  cruel. 
He  loved  me  the  right  way.  Oh,  if  I  could  only 
forget  how  he  talked ! — and  he  didn't  know  what 


196  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

he  was  saying.  I've  hated  myself  ever  since.  If 
he  dies,  I  shall  hate  myself  forever!  I  don't  de- 
serve that !  I'm  not  so  bad  as  that !  I  couldn't 
be.  I'm  willing  to  be  punished  in  other  ways — 
in  any  other  way — but  not  this,  God!  I  can't 
stand  it! 

"I  don't  ask  for  him  as  he  was !  I  don't  care 
how  he  looks !  Give  him  to  me  just  as  he  is. 
Give  him  to  me  crippled  and  helpless,  and  let  me 
care  for  him  all  my  life.  Oh,  God,  it  isn't  so 
much  that  I  ask !  It's  such  a  little  thing  for  you 
to  grant !  Why,  every  day  you  let  some  one  get 
well,  some  one  who  isn't  half  as  much  to  anybody 
as  he  is  to  me.  If  I  were  asking  something  I 
oughtn't  to — something  sinful,  it  would  be  differ- 
ent !  But  it  can't  be  bad  to  want  him  to  get  well ! 
I'll  be  better  all  my  life  to  have  him.  It  isn't 
much — I'll  never  ask  you  anything  else  as  long  as 
I  live !  Only  let  him  live — don't  take  him  away ! 
I  don't  care  if  he  can  never  walk  again,  if  he  can 
only  know  me,  and  love  me  still !  God,  his  life  is 
so  precious  to  me;  it's  worth  more  than  all  the 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  197 

world.  If  he  died,  I  would  want  to  die,  too.  God ! 
Hasn't  he  suffered  enough  ?  How  can  you  watch 
him — how  can  you  see  what  he  is  suffering  now 
and  not  let  him  live?  You  can  if  you  want  to! 
There  are  so  many  millions  and  millions  of 
people,  and  this  is  just  one  of  them.  Oh,  for 
Christ's  sake — for  Christ's  sake!" 

"Oh,  Margaret !  Margaret !"  wailed  Lois,  fall- 
ing beside  her,  as  though  physical  contact  could 
soothe  her.  "Don't  go  on  like  that!  Don't! 
Oh,  it's  too  cruel !  You  break  my  heart !  Dar- 
ling, darling !  He  isn't  dead  yet.  Maybe — may- 
be  "  She  stopped  then,  choking,  but  pressing 

her  hands  hard  on  Margaret's  cheeks,  on  her  hair, 
on  her  breast,  her  limbs,  as  though  to  press  back 
the  nerves  that  she  felt  throbbed  to  bursting. 

Margaret  struggled  to  her  feet,  swaying  with 
the  paroxysm  just  passed.  Her  eyes  were  unwet 
and  bright,  and  her  teeth  were  clenched  tightly 
on  her  under  lip. 

"No,  he  isn't  dead,"  she  said  slowly,  as  though 
to  force  conviction  on  herself.  "He  isn't — dead. 


198  A  Ftirnace  of  Earth. 

Doctors  are  mistaken  sometimes,  aren't  they?" 
she  asked  dully.  "Yes,  I  know!  They  are! 
Dr.  Irwin  told  me  so  himself.  'The  prognostica- 
tions of  surgery  can  in  no  case  be  considered  in- 
fallible.' That's  what  he  said  in  the  lecture  yes- 
terday. I  wrote  it  down  in  my  note-book.  That 
means  that  he  may  not  die.  Oh !  I've  got  to  be- 
lieve that.  I've  got  to!  Can't  you  see  that  I've 
got  to  ?  You  don't  believe  he  will  live !  I  see  it 
in  your  face.  When  the  doctor  said  that  just 
now,  you  looked  just  as  he  did.  He  might  have 
stabbed  me  just  as  well.  Why!  I'd  rather  die 
myself  a  million  times — but  it  wouldn't  do  any 
good !  It  wouldn't  do  any  good !" 

Margaret  moved  to  the  fire  and  spread  out  her 
hands  before  the  blaze,  as  though  her  mind  un- 
consciously sought  relief  from  strain  in  an  habit- 
ual action.  But  her  chattering  teeth  showed  that 
she  was  unconscious  of  its  warmth. 

She  looked  up  at  the  countenance  of  La  Belle 
Jardiniere  above  the  fireplace.  The  mild  gaze 
which  had  once  held  reproach  now  seemed  to 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  199 

bend  down  full  of  pitiful  tenderness.  Her 
bright,  miserable  eyes  rested  on  the  placid  figure. 

"You  don't  know,"  she  said  slowly,  "what  I 
am  praying  for.  If  it  were  a  little  child — my 
little  child — that  I  were  asking  for,  you  would 
understand.  You  can  only  pity  me,  but  you  can 
never,  never  know !" 

She  turned  and  walked  up  and  down  the  floor, 
her  steps  uneven  with  anguish,  her  fingers  laced 
and  unlaced  in  tearless  convulsion,  and  her  throat 
contracting  with  soundless  sobs. 

Lois  watched  her,  her  mind  saying  over  and 
over  to  itself:  "If  she  would  only  cry!  If  she 
would  only  cry!"  There  was  something  more 
terrible  than  tears  in  this  inarticulate  anguish. 
At  last  she  went  and  stood  in  Margaret's  way, 
clinging  entreatingly  to  her.  "Do  let  me  help 
you,  dear!  Lie  down  and  let  me  cover  you  up 
and  make  you  some  tea !  Do  please,  dear !"  She 
stopped,  struck  by  the  ashy  pallor  of  her  face. 

"No,  no,  Lois.  I  can't  stay  here!  Think! 
He  may  be  dying  now!  I  must  go  to  him !  Oh, 


2OO  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

you  have  got  to  let  me — they  can't  forbid  me  that. 
I  was  going  to  stay  with  him  to-night,  anyway. 
You  know  I  was !  I  can't  let  him  die !  He 
shan't!  I'll  fight  it  off  with  him.  I  don't  care 
what  Dr.  Faulkner  says;  I  don't  care  what  you 
think!  You  mustn't  say  no,  Lois!  Oh,  Lois, 
darling!  I'll  die  now,  right  here,  if  you  don't." 
She  dropped  on  her  knees  at  Lois's  feet,  catching 
her  hand  and  kissing  it  in  grovelling  entreaty. 

"You  know  I'll  have  to  let  you,  if  you  ask  like 
that!"  cried  Lois.  "I'm  only  thinking  of  you — 
and  of  him,"  she  added.  "You  know  if  you 
should  break  down " 

"But  I  won't — I  won't !"  A  gulping  hiccough 
strained  her,  and  Lois  poured  out  a  glass  of  water 
for  her  hastily,  and  stood  over  her  while  she 
swallowed  it  in  choking  mouthfuls. 


XX. 

In  the  dimmed  light  Margaret  bent  above 
Daunt's  bed  to  wipe  away  the  creeping,  beady 
sweat  that  lay  on  the  forehead,  and  laid  her  fin- 
gers on  his  wrist.  Then  she  came  close  to  Lois. 
She  had  bitten  her  lip  raw  and  her  neck  throbbed 
out  and  in  above  her  close  collar. 

"It's  fluttering,"  she  whispered  piteously,  "and 
he's  so  cold !  See  how  pinched  and  blue  his  nose 
is.  Oh,  God— Lois !" 

The  rustle  and  stir  of  the  early  waking  city 
soaked  in  fine-filtered  sounds  through  the  win- 
dow. Of  what  use  were  its  multitudinous  striv- 
ings, its  tangled  hopes,  its  varied  suffering?  The 
unending  quiet  of  softened  noises  beyond  the 
spotless,  ruffled  screens  hurt  her.  She  could  have 


2O2  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

screamed,  inarticulately,  frantically,  to  scare  away 
that  dreadful,  stolid,  lethargic  thing  that  sprawled 
in  the  air.  Her  nails  left  little,  curved,  purpled 
dents  in  her  palms  that  smarted  when  she  un- 
clenched her  fingers.  It  would  be  easier  to  bear 
it  if  he  cried  out — if  he  babbled  unmeaningness, 
or  hurled  reproaches.  Only — that  still  prostra- 
tion, that  anxious  expression  about  the  lines  of 

the  forehead,  that  silence,  growing  into No, 

no !  Not  that !  Not — death ! 

Lois  sat  aching  fiercely  at  the  smouldering 
longing  in  the  shadowy  depths  of  the  other's 
spaniel-like  eyes.  The  tawny-brown  surge  of  her 
hair,  swept  back  from  her  forehead,  stood  out 
against  the  white  of  the  blank  wall,  cameo-like. 
She  suddenly  crouched  by  Lois's  chair,  grasping 
at  her.  "Lois,  Lois!"  she  said,  low  and  with 
fearful  intensity;  "it's  come!  Help  me  to  fight 
it!  Help  me!" 

"What  has  come?    What?" 

"Fear!  It's  looking  at  me  everywhere.  It's 
looking  between  the  screens!  I  must  keep  it 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  203 

away.  If  I  give  up  to  it,  he'll  die!  Press  my 
hands — that's  good.  Look  at  him!  Didn't  he 
move  then?  Wasn't  his  face  turned  more?  I'm 
— cold,  Lois." 

An  icy  frost  had  silvered  her  soul.  Gaunt 
arms  seemed  to  stretch  from  the  dimness  toward 
the  bed.  Then,  with  an  effort  which  left  her 
weak,  she  thrust  back  her  imaginings,  rose,  and 
sat  down  by  the  pillow.  Her  eyes  glanced  fear- 
fully from  side  to  side,  then  above,  as  though 
questioning  from  what  direction  would  come  this 
relentless  foe. 

Through  her  dazed  brain  rushed,  clamorous, 
reiterating,  a  prayer-blent,  defiant  appeal.  She 
saw  God  sitting  on  a  draped  throne,  but  His  face 
was  merciless.  He  would  not  help  her!  Of 
what  virtue  was  this  all-filling  love  of  hers  if  it 
could  not  save  one  little  human  life?  He  was 
dying — dying — dying!  And  he  must  not  die! 
She  remembered  a  night,  far  back  in  her  misty 
childhood,  when  she  had  crept  through  evening 
shadows  to  see  a  soul  take  flight.  The  Death 


204  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

Angel  then  was  a  kindly  friend  sent  to  set  free  a 
shining  twin ;  now  it  was  a  ghastly  monster,  lying 
in  wait  and  chuckling  in  the  silences. 

She  pressed  Daunt's  nerveless  hand  between 
her  warm  palms  and  strove  to  put  the  whole 
force  of  her  being  into  a  great  passionate  desire — 
a  desire  to  send  along  this  human  conductivity 
the  extra  current  of  vitality  which  she  felt  throb- 
bing and  pressing  in  her  every  vein.  It  seemed 
as  though  she  must  give — give  of  her  own  bound- 
ing life,  to  eke  out  the  fading  powers  of  that 
dying  frame.  Again  and  again  she  breathed  out 
her  longing,  until  the  very  intensity  of  her  will 
made  her  feel  dizzy  and  weak.  She  would  have 
opened  her  veins  for  him.  Like  the  Roman 
daughter,  she  would  have  given  her  breast  to  his 
lips  and  the  warmth  from  her  limbs  to  aid  him. 

Once  she  started.  "You  shall!  You  shall!" 
seemed  to  patter  in  flying  echoes  all  about  her. 
It  was  Daunt's  cry  by  the  fields  at  Warne,  that 
had  gone  leaping  from  his  lips  to  her  heart  like 
a  vibrant,  inspiring  fire.  Did  that  virile  will  still 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  205 

lie  living,  overlapped  with  the  wing  of  disease, 
sending  its  stubborn  strength  out  now  to  bolster 
her  own?  She  glanced  at  the  waxy  face,  half  ex- 
pecting to  see  the  bloodless  lips  falling  back  from 
the  words. 

Daunt  lay  motionless.  The  ice-pack  had  been 
removed  from  his  head,  and  the  shaven  temple 
showed  paste-like  beneath  the  bandage-edge. 
From  time  to  time  Lois  poured  between  his  lips  a 
teaspoonful  of  diluted  brandy,  and,  at  such  times, 
Margaret  would  put  her  strong  arms  under  his 
head  and  raise  it  from  the  pillow,  outwardly  calm, 
but  inwardly  shuddering  with  wrenching  jerks 
of  pain. 

So  the  slow,  weary  night  dragged  away.  The 
house  surgeon  looked  in  once,  bent  over  the  pa- 
tient a  moment,  and,  without  examination,  went 
away. 

The  morning  broke,  and  through  the  walls  the 
dim,  murmurous  hum  of  street  traffic  penetrated 
in  a  muffled  whisper.  Then  the  gray  of  the  late 


206  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

dawn  crept  about  the  room,  noiseless-footed,  like 
one  walking  over  graves.  Suddenly  Lois,  who 
had  been  sitting  with  closed  eyes,  felt  a  touch  on 
her  shoulder.  It  was  Margaret,  and  she  pointed 
silently  to  Daunt.  Lois  started  forward  with  a 
shrinking  fear  that  the  end  had  come  unper- 
ceived,  but  a  glance  reassured  her.  The  rigid 
outlines  of  his  features  seemed  to  have  relaxed; 
an  indefinable  something,  a  warmth,  a  tinge,  a 
flexibility  seemed  to  have  fallen  upon  the  drawn 
cheeks.  It  was  something  scarce  tangible  enough 
to  be  noted ;  something  evasive,  and  yet,  to  Lois's 
trained  senses,  unmistakable.  It  was  a  light 
loosening  of  the  grip  of  Death,  a  tentative  with- 
drawing of  the  forces  of  the  destroyer. 

Lois  turned  with  a  quick  and  silent  gesture, 
and  the  two  girls  looked  at  each  other  steadfastly. 
Into  Margaret's  eyes  sprang  a  trembling,  eager 
light  of  joy. 

"We  mustn't  hope  too  much,  dear,"  Lois  whis- 
pered, "but  I  think— I  think  that  there  is  a  little 
change.  Wait  until  I  call  Dr.  Irwin." 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  207 

The  house  surgeon  bent  over  the  cot  with  his 
finger  upon  Daunt's  pulse.  "This  is  another  one 
on  Faulkner,"  he  said.  "It  beats  all  how  things 
will  go.  Said  he'd  give  him  twelve  hours,  did 
he?  Well,  this  patient  has  his  own  ideas  about 
that.  He  evidently  has  marvellous  recuperative 
powers  or  else  the  age  of  miracles  isn't  past.  Bet- 
ter watch  this  case  very  carefully  and  report  to 
me  every  hour  or  so.  You  can  count,"  he  smiled 
at  Lois,  "on  being  mighty  unpopular  with  Faulk- 
ner. He  doesn't  like  to  have  his  opinions  re- 
versed this  way,  and  he  is  pretty  sure  to  lay  it  on 
the  nurse." 

As  the  doctor  disappeared,  all  the  strength 
which  Margaret  had  summoned  to  her  aid  seemed 
to  vanish  in  one  great  wave  of  weakening  which 
overspread  her  spirit.  Everything  swam  before 
her  eyes.  She  sank  upon  the  chair  and  laid 
her  arms  outstretched  upon  the  table.  Then  she 
slowly  dropped  her  head  upon  them. 


XXL 

It  was  late  afternoon.  The  fiery  sun  had  just 
dipped  below  the  jagged  Adirondack  hill-peaks 
to  the  south,  still  casting  a  carmine  glow  be- 
tween the  scattered  and  low-boughed  pines.  The 
square  window  of  the  high-ceiled  sanitarium 
room  was  specked  with  pale-appearing  stars,  and 
the  snow-draped  slopes  beneath  showed  dim  in 
the  elusive  beauty  that  lurks  in  soft  color  and  low 
tones.  Daunt  lay  silent,  facing  the  window,  and 
Margaret,  tired  from  romping  with  the  doctor's 
children,  rested  on  a  low  hassock  beside  his  re- 
clining chair.  Slowly  the  carmine  faded  from  the 
snow,  and  the  hastening  winter-dark  trailed  its 
violescent  gossamer  up  and  down  the  rock-clefts 
and  across  the  purpling  hollows. 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  209 

He  turned  his  eyes,  all  at  once  feeling  her  lifted 
gaze.  He  reached  out  his  right  hand  and  touched 
the  lace  edge  of  her  white  nurse's  cap,  with  a  faint 
smile.  Something  in  the  smile  and  the  gesture 
caught  at  her  heart.  She  leaned  suddenly 
toward  him,  and  taking  his  hand  in  both  her  own, 
laid  her  face  upon  it. 

He  drew  his  hand  away,  breathing  sharply. 

"Dear!"  she  said.  "Do  you  remember  that 
afternoon  on  the  sands?  You  kissed  me  then! 
I  am  the  same  Margaret  now — not  changed 
at  all." 

A  shudder  passed  over  him,  but  he  did  not 
reply. 

Then  she  knelt  beside  him,  quite  close,  laying 
her  cheek  by  his  face  on  the  pillow  and  drawing 
his  one  live  hand  up  to  her  lips.  "You  are  every- 
thing to  me,"  she  whispered — "everything,  every- 
thing !  That  day  on  the  beach  I  was  happy ;  but 
not  more  happy,  dear,  than  I  am  now.  You  were 
everything  else  in  the  world  to  me  then,  but  now 
you  are  me,  myself!  Don't  turn  away;  look  at 


2io  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

me !"  Reaching  over,  she  drew  his  nerveless  left 
arm  across  her  neck. 

He  turned  his  face  to  her  with  an  effort,  his 
lips  struggling  to  speak. 

"Kiss  me !"  she  commanded. 

He  tried  to  push  her  back.  "No!  No!"  he 
cried  vehemently,  drawing  away.  "That's  past." 

"Not  even  that!  Just  think  how  long  I've 
waited!"  She  was  smiling.  "Richard,"  she 
said,  "do  you  know  what  it  means  for  a  woman  to 
kneel  to  a  man  like  this  ?  I  haven't  a  bit  of  pride 
about  it.  Only  think  how  ashamed  I  will  be  if 
you  refuse  to  take  me !  What  does  a  woman  do 
when  a  man  refuses  her?" 

A  white  pain  had  settled  upon  Daunt's  face. 
"Margaret,"  he  faltered,  "don't ;  I  can't  stand  it ! 
You  don't  know  what  you  say." 

She  kissed  his  hand  again.  "Yes,  I  do !  I  am 
saying  just  as  plainly  as  I  can  that  I  love  you; 
that  I  belong  to  you,  and  that  I  ask  for  nothing 
else  but  to  belong  to  you  as  long  as  I  live." 

His  hand  made  a  motion  of  protest. 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  211 

"I  want  you  just  as  much  as  I  did  the  day  you 
first  kissed  me.  I  want  the  right  to  stay  with  you 
always  and  care  for  you." 

He  winced  visibly.  "  'Care  for  me !'  "  he  re- 
peated. "It  would  be  all  care.  I  have  nothing 
to  bring  you  now  but  sorrow  and  regret.  I'm 
not  the  Daunt  who  offered  himself  to  you  at 
Warne.  I'm  only  a  fragment.  I  had  health  and 
hopes  then.  I  had  beautiful  dreams,  Margaret — 
dreams  of  work  and  a  home  and  you.  I  shan't 
ever  forget  those  dreams,  but  they  can  never 
come  true!" 

She  smoothed  his  hand  caressingly.  "I  have 
had  dreams,  too,"  she  answered.  "This  is  the 
one  that  comes  oftenest  of  all.  It  is  about  you 
and  me."  She  turned  her  head,  with  a  spot  of 
color  in  either  cheek.  "Sometimes  it  is  in  the 
day.  You  are  lying,  writing  away  at  a  new  book 
of  yours,  and  I  am  filling  your  pipe  for  you,  while 
the  tea  is  getting  hot.  I  see  you  smile  up  to  me 
and  say,  'Clever  girl !  how  did  you  know  I  wanted 
a  smoke?'  Then  you  read  your  last  chapter  to 


212  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

me,  and  I  tell  you  how  I  wouldn't  have  said  it  the 
way  the  woman  in  the  story  does,  and  you  pre- 
tend you  are  going  to  change  it,  and  don't. 

"Sometimes  it  is  in  the  evening,  and  we  are 
looking  out  at  the  sunset  just  as  we  have  been 
doing  to-night." 

He  would  have  spoken,  but  she  covered  his 
mouth  with  her  hand.  His  moist  breath  wrapped 
her  palm. 

"And  then  it  is  dark  and  there  is  a  big  red  lamp 
on  the  table — the  one  I  had  in  my  old  room — and 
I  am  reading  the  latest  novel  to  you,  and  when 
we  have  got  to  the  end,  you  are  telling  me  how 
you  would  have  done  it." 

While  she  had  been  speaking,  glowing  and 
dark-eyed,  a  mystical  peace — a  divine  forgetful- 
ness  had  touched  him.  He  lifted  his  hand  to  his 
forehead,  feeling  her  soft  fingers.  The  pictures 
she  painted  were  so  sweet ! 

Presently  he  threw  his  arm  down  with  a  swal- 
lowed sob.  The  dream-scene  faded,  and  he  lay 
once  more  helpless  and  despairing,  weighted  with 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  213 

the  heaviness  of  useless  limbs,  a  numb  burden  for 
whom  there  could  be  no  love,  no  joy,  nothing  but 
the  inevitable  rebuke  of  enduring  pain.  He 
smoothed  the  wide  dun-gold  waves  of  her  hair 
gently. 

"You  are  not  for  such  a  sacrifice,  Margaret," 
he  said  sadly.  "I  am  not  such  a  coward.  You 
are  a  woman — a  perfect,  beautiful  woman — the 
kind  that  God  made  all  happiness  for." 

"But  I  couldn't  be  happy  without  you!"  she 
cried. 

"Nor  with  me,"  he  answered.  "No,  I've  got 
to  face  it !  All  the  long  years  I  should  watch 
that  womanhood  of  yours  growing  dimmer  and 
less  full,  your  outlook  narrowing,  your  life's  sym- 
pathies shrinking.  I  shall  be  shut  up  to  myself 
and  grow  away  from  the  world,  but  you  shall  not 
grow  away  from  it  with  me!  It  would  be  a 
crime !  I  should  come  to  hate  myself.  I  want 
you  to  live  your  life  out  worthily.  I  would 
rather  remember  you  as  you  are  now,  and  as 
loving  me  once  for  what  I  was !" 


214  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

Margaret's  eyes  were  closed.  She  was  think- 
ing of  Melwin  and  Lydia. 

"Woman  needs  more  to  fill  her  life  than  the 
love  of  a  man's  mind.  She  wants  more,  dear. 
She  wants  the  love  of  the  heart-beat.  She  wants 
home — the  home  I  wanted  to  make  for  you — the 

kind  I  used  to  dream  of — the "  His  voice 

broke  here  and  failed. 

The  door  pushed  open  without  a  knock.  A 
tiny  night-gowned  figure  stood  swaying  on  the 
sill,  outlined  sharply  against  the  glare  of  lamp- 
light. 

"Vere's  'iss  Mar'det?"  he  said  in  high  baby 
key.  "I  yants  her  to  tiss  me  dood-night !" 

Margaret's  hand  still  lay  against  Daunt's  cheek, 
and  as  she  drew  it  away,  she  felt  a  great  hot  tear 
suddenly  wet  her  fingers. 


XXII. 

Snow  had  fallen  in  the  night — a  wet  snow, 
mingled  with  sleet  and  fleering  rain.  It  had 
spread  a  flashing,  silver  sheen  over  the  vast 
wastes,  and  the  sun  glinted  and  laughed  from  a 
web  of  woven  jewels.  It  gleamed  from  every 
needle  of  the  stalwart  evergreens,  which  stood 
around  in  dazzling  ice-armor,  keeping  guard 
above  the  virgin  snow  asleep,  with  its  white 
curves  dimpling  beside  the  rough,  bearish  moun- 
tains. Overhead  the  sky  bent  in  tranquil  baby- 
blue. 

The  beauty  of  the  frozen  morning  hung  cheer- 
ily about  the  row  of  pillowed  chairs  wheeled  be- 
fore the  glass  sides  of  the  long  sun-parlor.  To 
some  who  gazed  from  these  chairs  it  was  a 
glimpse  of  the  world  into  which  they  would  soon 


2 1 6  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

return;  to  others  it  was  but  the  symbol  of  an- 
other weary  winter  of  lengthening  waiting.  But 
to  each  it  brought  a  comfort  and  a  hope. 

The  same  fair  whiteness  of  the  outdoors  shone 
mockingly  through  Daunt's  window.  Its  very 
loveliness  seemed  cruel,  with  that  insidious  rail- 
lery with  which  Nature,  be  she  gloomy  or  bright, 
fits  our  darker  moods.  Through  the  night,  while 
Margaret's  phantom  touch  lay  upon  his  forehead, 
and  the  ghosts  of  her  kisses  crept  across  his  hand, 
he  had  fought  with  his  longing,  and  he  had  won. 
But  it  was  a  triumphless  victory.  The  pulpy 
ashes  of  his  own  denial  were  in  his  mouth.  He 
had  asked  so  little — only  to  see  her,  to  hear  her 
step,  and  the  lisping  movement  of  her  dress,  and 
the  cadence  of  her  voice — only  to  feel  the,  touch 
of  her  fingers  and  the  drench  of  her  warm,  young 
life!  She  loved  him;  his  love,  he  told  himself, 
incomplete  as  it  was,  would  take  the  place  of  all 
for  her.  And  in  his  heart  he  told  himself  that 
he  lied! 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  2 1 7 

But  the  rayless  darkness  of  that  inner  room 
cast  no  shadow  in  the  cozy  sun-parlor.  There, 
the  doctor,  with  youthful  step  that  belied  his 
graying  hair,  strode  about  among  the  patients, 
chatting  lightly,  and  full  of  good-natured  badi- 
nage. Then,  leaving  them  smiling,  he  went  back 
to  his  private  office.  As  he  entered,  Margaret 
rose  from  the  chair  where  she  waited,  and  came 
hurriedly  toward  him.  She  was  pale,  and  her 
slender  hands  were  clasping  nervously  about  her 
wrists. 

"Doctor,"  she  began,  and  stopped  an  instant 
Then  stumblingly,  "I  have  just  got  your  note.  I 
came  to  ask  you — I  want  to  beg  you  to — not  to 
make  me  go  back !  I — want  to  stay  so  much ! 
I  know  so  well  how  to  wait  on  him.  You  know 
I  wasn't  a  regular  nurse  at  the  hospital.  It  was 
only  a  trial.  Dr.  Goodno  doesn't  expect  me 
back." 

He  drew  out  a  chair  for  her  and  made  her  sit 
down,  wiping  his  glasses  laboriously.  "My  dear 
child — Miss  Langdon — "  he  said,  "I  know  how 


2 1 8  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

you  feel.  My  good  friend  Mrs.  Goodno  wrote 
me  of  you  when  Mr.  Daunt  came  to  us.  She  is 
a  splendid,  noble-hearted  woman,  and  she  wrote 
of  you  as  though  you  were  her  own  daughter. 
You  see,"  he  continued,  "when  you  first  came,  it 
was  suspected  that  Mr.  Daunt's  peculiar  paralysis 
might  be  of  a  hysteric  type,  and  might  yield 
naturally,  under  treatment,  with  a  bettering  physi- 
cal condition,  or,  possibly,  under  the  impulse  of 
some  extra  nervous  stimulus.  Such  cases  are  not 
unmet  with." 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  said  anxiously. 

He  polished  his  glasses  again.  "I  am  sorry  to 
say,"  he  went  on,  "that  we  have  long  ago  aban- 
doned this  hope,  as  you  know.  Such  being  the 
case,  it  seems,  under  the  peculiar  circumstances, 

advisable — that  is,  it  would  be  better  not  to " 

He  stopped,  feeling  that  he  was  floundering  in 
deeper  water  than  he  thought. 

"Oh,  if  you  only  knew!"  Margaret's  voice 
was  shaking.  "I  came  here  because  I  love  him, 
doctor,  and  because  he  loved  me !  Surely  I  can 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  219 

at  least  stay  by  him.  I  am  experienced  enough 
to  nurse  him.  It's  the  only  thing  left  now  for  me 
to  be  happy  in.  He  wants  me !  He's  more  cheer- 
ful when  I  am  with  him.  I  know  he  doesn't 
really  need  a  special  nurse,  but — I  don't  have  to 
earn  the  money  for  it.  I  do  it  because  I  like  it." 

"My  dear  young  lady,"  the  doctor  said,  wheel- 
ing, with  suspicious  abruptness,  in  his  chair,  "be 
sure  that  it  is  only  your  own  best  good  that  is 
considered.  There  are  cruel  facts  in  life  that  we 
have  to  face.  This  seems  very  hard  for  you  now, 
I  know.  It  is  hard !  He  is  a  brave  man,  and  be- 
lieve me,  my  child,  he  knows  best." 

Margaret  half  rose  from  her  seat.  "  'He'  ? — 
he  knows  best — Richard?  Does  he  say — did  Mr. 
Daunt " 

He  took  her  hand  as  a  father  might.  "It  was 
not  easy  for  him,"  he  said  simply. 

She  bowed  her  head  in  piteous  acquiescence, 
and  held  his  fingers  a  moment,  her  lips  striving 
courageously  for  a  smile,  and  then  went  silent- 
ly out. 


220  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

As  she  passed  Daunt's  closed  door  on  the  way 
to  her  room,  she  stretched  out  her  arms  and 
touched  its  dark  panels  softly,  fearfully,  and  then 
leaned  forward,  and  once  laid  her  lips  against  the 
hard  grained  wood. 

An  hour  later,  from  where  he  lay,  Daunt  could 
see  the  bulbous,  ulstered  figure  of  the  colored 
driver  as  he  waited  by  the  porch  to  take  his~  single 
passenger  to  the  distant  Lake  station.  He  could 
see  the  rake  of  the  horses'  ears  as  the  man  swung 
his  arms,  pounding  his  sides  to  keep  the  blood 
circulating.  His  steamy  breath  made  a  curdling 
smoke-cloud  about  his  peaked  cap. 

Daunt's  blood  forged  painfully  as  the  square 
ormolu  clock  on  the  mantel  pointed  near  to  the 
hour.  There  were  lines  of  sleeplessness  beneath 
his  eyes;  his  face  was  instinct  with  suffering. 
Through  his  open  door  came  the  mingled  tones 
of  conversation  in  the  rooms  beyond. 

He  was  sitting  up,  his  vigorous  hair,  grown 
over-long  during  his  illness,  blending  its  hue  with 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  221 

that  of  the  dark  chair-cushion.  The  white  col- 
lar that  he  wore  seemed  to  have  lent  its  pallor  to 
his  cheeks. 

He  felt  himself  to  have  aged  during  the  night. 
Through  the  long  weeks  since  his  accident,  he 
had  hoped  against  hope.  The  doctors  had  talked 
speciously  of  change  of  scene  and  bracing  moun- 
tain air.  He  had  been  glad  enough  to  leave  the 
foreboding  atmosphere  of  the  hospital  for  this 
more  cheery  hill-top  harbor.  He  had  never 
known  nor  asked  by  what  arrangement  Margaret 
was  now  with  him;  it  had  seemed  only  natural 
that  it  should  be  so.  His  patches  of  delirium 
memories  were  every  one  brightened  by  her  face 
and  touch,  and  this  state  had  merged  itself  gradu- 
ally into  the  waking  consciousness  when  she  was 
always  by.  Without  questioning,  he  had  come 
to  realize  that  whatever  might  have  risen  between 
them  in  the  past  was  forever  gone,  and  rested 
content  in  her  near  presence  and  the  promise  of 
the  future. 

But  as  the  weeks  dragged  themselves  by  he  had 


222  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

come  to  know,  with  a  kind  slowness  of  realizar 
tion,  that  this  hope  must  die.  In  their  late  talks, 
both  of  them  had  tacitly  recognized  this.  In  the 
night  of  his  growing  despair,  she  had  been  his 
one  star.  Now  he  must  shut  out  that  ray  with 
his  own  hands  and  turn  his  face  to  the  intolerable 
dark. 

When  her  head  had  been  next  his  on  the  pil- 
low, with  his  nostrils  full  of  the  clean,  grassy 
fragrance  of  her  hair — when  her  hand  had  closed 
his  lips  and  her  voice  had  plead  with  him,  he 
had  seen,  as  through  a  lightning-rift,  the  enor- 
mity of  the  selfishness  with  which  he  had  let  his 
soul  be  tempted.  From  that  moment  there  was 
for  him  but  one  way — this  way.  And  he  had  ac- 
cepted it  unflinchingly,  heroically. 

The  spring  of  the  wide  stairway  broke  and 
turned  half  way  up,  and  from  where  he  sat  his 
eye  sighted  the  landing  and  that  slim  figure  com- 
ing slowly  down.  It  was  the  old  Margaret  in 
street  dress.  Above  the  fur  of  her  close,  fawn 


A  Furnace  of  Earth.  223 

cloth  coat,  her  hopeless  eyes  looked  over  the 
balustrade  along  which  her  slight,  gloved  hand 
slid  weakly,  as  though  seeking  support  for  her 
limbs. 

She  crossed  the  threshold  and  came  toward 
him,  with  her  eyes  half  closed,  as  though  in  a 
maze  of  grief.  The  hollows  beneath  them  looked 
bruised,  and  her  features  pinched  like  a  child's 
with  the  cold.  Gropingly  and  blindly,  one  hand 
reached  out  to  him,  the  other  she  pressed  close 
to  her  throat.  She  was  bathed  in  a  wave  of  vio- 
lent trembling. 

Every  stretching  fibre  in  Daunt's  being  re- 
sponded. He  could  feel  the  shuddering  palpita- 
tion through  her  suede  glove.  His  self-restraint 
hung  about  him  like  heavy  chains,  which  the 
quiver  of  an  eyelash,  the  impulse  of  a  sigh,  would 
start  into  clamorous  vibration. 

He  looked  up  and  their  eyes  met  once.  Her 
gaze  clung  to  him.  His  lips  formed,  rather  than 
spoke,  the  word  "Good-by."  Then  he  put  her 


224  A  Furnace  of  Earth. 

hand  aside  and  turned  his  head  from  her,  not  to 
see  her  go. 

His  strained  ear  heard  her  uncertain  footfalls, 
and  the  agony  of  his  mind  counted  them !  Now 
she  was  by  the  table.  Now  her  hand  was  on  the 

knob.  Now He  sprang  around,  facing  her 

at  the  sound  of  a  stumble  and  a  dulled  blow ;  she 
had  pitched  forward  against  the  opened  door, 
swaying — about  to  fall. 

As  her  knees  touched  the  floor,  a  scream  burst 
shrill  in  the  silence  of  the  room — a  scream  that 
pierced  the  drowsy  quiet  of  the  sun-parlor  and 
brought  the  doctor  running  through  the  hall. 

"Margaret!" 

Its  intensity  dragged  her  from  the  swoon.  She 
turned  her  head.  Daunt  was  standing  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor,  his  eyes  shining  with  fluc- 
tuant fire,  his  arms — both  arms — stretched  out 
toward  her. 

"Margaret!"  he  screamed.  "Margaret!  I 
can  walk!" 


JE  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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